


The Bachelors' Handfasting

by Jberry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1800s scotland, Arranged Marriage, Bodice-Ripper, Depression, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Kilts, M/M, Mary Watson miscarriage, Minor character suicide, No Period Typical Homophobia, Regency Romance, Romance, Scotland, Sherlock AU, Sherlock is smoll, Smoll, Some say Sherlock is so Smoll he's out of character, Talk of Suicide, Virgin Sherlock, kiltlock, mary Watson mental illness, minor character miscarriage, past depression, watson tartan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 30,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4442183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her son is caught in a compromising position, Victoria Holmes must make arrangements for a quick marriage between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamlockk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/gifts), [mishybot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishybot/gifts), [JohnlockInferno (Frakme)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frakme/gifts), [hogwartswitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartswitch/gifts).



> ** check tags for trigger warning updates **
> 
> Thank you, Jamlockk, for the inspiration, and to my Twitter friends, most especially Notidiotproof, Hogwartswitch and Mishybot who encourage and help me to write my best!
> 
> Translation assistance by Jamlockk and https://en.glosbe.com. 
> 
> I am amazed by all the sweet comments. Thank you!

Sherlock Holmes hated clan weddings. They were full of everything he couldn't stand. Being around people he didn't know, entertaining and dancing. It was exhausting. 

He preferred his time alone, his time to explore and run and pick out various leaves and animals from the creeks that surrounded their home. For most clan weddings, he was able to avoid them. An animal was close to escaping, or he would explain how he had gotten lost, or he would simply wander away in the middle of the ceremony. 

Today's wedding, however, could not be avoided. It would involve Sherlock's entire day, and his strict participation. His family was expected to put on a wedding celebration for the eldest brother, Mycroft Holmes, to his betrothed, Greg Lestrade. They had been betrothed for one month, ever since Victoria Holmes had secured the match as the matriarch of the family. 

Up early for the wedding day, before dawn, Sherlock was being fussed over. His hair had been put in rags so it curled even more overnight, and his legs under his everyday kilt shone with scented oil. His house help, William, assisted him with dressing him from head to toe in his wedding attire. However, Sherlock stopped him when he presented the kilt and the plaid, broach and sporran. They were all new, wrapped with a ribbon in a white cotton package. 

"William, that is not the Holmes tartan," Sherlock stated, holding it up in his fingers. The Holmes tartan design was mostly a deep blue with a few stripes of black. This tartan that he held was a woven design of greens, reds, yellows that formed squares as the small lines of colors draped over each other. So used to seeing all his family in the unlined dark blue, this type of tartan was striking and vibrant. 

"William, why am I wearing another tartan? Whose family does this belong to?" Sherlock tried to read William's face, but he purposely avoided the younger man's eyes. 

"Mr. Holmes, I have strict instructions from your mother that you are to wear this pattern of tartan. Beyond that, I do not know whose clan to which this belongs, nor her reasoning. As we both know, she is a kind, but a crafty woman, so of course there is quite another motive for sure in your dress," William smiled, as he helped Mr. Sherlock out of his common dress, and began to place the new clothing upon him, "There will be time for questions later."

Sherlock held his breath as the clothing was placed on him. He remembered his brother winking at him at the initial betrothal ceremony, after the Lestrade clan had been formally introduced to the Holmes clan. He'd winked, whispering in his ear, "Your turn for a husband next, little brother." Though Mycroft had meant it as a jest, or to cheer his brother up, it had simply filled him with dread. Unlike Mycroft, the younger Holmes had never longed for a family or a husband. He'd longed to be left alone, to keep up with his experiments, to read and write snippets regarding the newest scientific discoveries. Marriage was not part of his plans. 

William pulled back, admiring his work. Sherlock's inky curls fell to his shoulders in nearly perfect ringlets. The dark pattern of the tartan contrasted beautifully with his pale skin. It was chilly, and he shivered as a breeze ran under his kilt onto his thighs. William bade him turn around, admiring the placement of the broach and sporran, checking that everything laid out on Sherlock was at just the perfect angle. 

"William," Sherlock asked, sure that his face and ears were flushed pink, "Do you really know nothing why I am to wear another clan's tartan? Is there no information you can give me?"

William brought Sherlock closer to the fire and bid him to sit. In their Highlands Blackhouse most rooms ran one into the other. It was a long house, with a few glass windows, and moss growing on the roof. At one end of the home was a barricaded wall and the sheep slept on the other side of that partition. The sheep helped keep the house warm, and they were free to wander from inside the house to outside on the edge of the hills, the stubby grassed pasture. 

Now, with the sheep wandering out in the morning light, the fire helped steady Sherlock's thoughts. William put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Mr. Holmes," William began, "Today is about your brother and his betrothed. Do not worry yourself over it. Rest, and when the sun has fully cleared the pasture of dew, we will go outside and the Clan Chief will bless their marriage. That is all you must concern yourself with."

Sherlock looked up at William. He knew there was more, as the tartan was unlike anything he'd ever seen. It was not the Lestrade clan, a yellow with deep green stripes, or their distant cousins the Hooper clan, whose tartan was a lighter blue with white. This was a new pattern, and his mother was putting it on him for a specific reason. 

Instead of responding to William, Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of the fire to tickle at his skin. He steepled his fingers together, resting his chin on his hands. He imagined his stallion, Aidan, and riding him through the forest on another grand adventure. He imagined his tree experiment he had been running since he was eight, where he had wrapped a sapling to grow up tall and strong around an old statute of Ceridwen. He used his imagination to fly outside of his house, this predicament, if only for a few moments. 

The fire had nearly died down when William had shaken Sherlock awake, "It is time, my lord, the rest of your family is congregating in the flowered part of the meadow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitions:
> 
> tartan: [ Simpler term for all the fabric and trappings that makes up the outfit of traditional Scottish attire. Artistic license taken on this to simplify text. ](http://www.tartansauthority.com/highland-dress/ancient/)
> 
> Blackhouse: [ traditional Scottish Highlands home. ](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackhouse)
> 
> Ceridwen: [ Celitic goddess. Writer has taken artistic license that her statue would be on the countryside. ](http://www.godchecker.com/pantheon/celtic-mythology.php?deity=CERIDWEN)


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock kept his back straight and his head held high as he walked through the pasture, William beside him, but just a step behind. The dew was nearly dispersed, and a light fog drifted up from the ground, weaving in and through the Highlands.

At the far end of the Holmes' land, the clansmen had set up rows of rough logged benches and smoothed rocks to form a semi circle and rows of seats. The seats were facing a pile of rocks interspersed with wild flowers. 

The wedding guests milled around wooden casks of mulled wine, most of each groom's families not wandering from their own clan. The colors of tartan were mostly the blues of Holmes and yellow of Lestrades, but a few stood out like Sherlock. A few wore deep red, a few wore green blue and one old man had on a tartan of white.

No one wore the same multi striped tartan pattern that Sherlock wore. He stood at the end of the crowd, watching everyone talk and circle around each other's groups. In watching the milling crowd, he deduced the deep red tartan was for relatives of the Lestrades who had married into the clan. The green blue were distinguished guests from a neighboring clan of the Holmes with whom his mother was working towards an alliance. 

The old man in white Sherlock couldn't deduce. He was staring at Sherlock the same way Sherlock stared back. Occasionally, he would look into the distance, scanning the entire horizon. Sherlock eventually grew bored, and went to his group of cousins who were huddled around one of the mead barrels. William, ever bound to duty, stayed at his side, but a few paces back. 

"Aye there, 'Lock!" Tavis burst, causing many of the guests to turn and gawk. Tavis looked after the old Wallace side of the family with large, broad shoulders and chest, muscled, tan. He frequently would only wear an old, ratted kilt, preferring to run around as bare as possible, his heavy calloused feet keeping grounded to the stubbed grass of the earth as he tended the flock. Tavis was Sherlock's dearest cousin, and taking time nearly every day to help Sherlock, Mycroft and their parents, Victoria and Stuart. The Holmes family was smart, and as leaders of the clan, their ability to plan and maximize resources was unparalleled. Tavis, with the use of his sheer brute strength, assisted the clan in the use of the barn house, the care of the sheep and moving trades across clans. 

Now, Tavis smiled and clapped his large hand over Sherlock's entire shoulder, "Mycroft getting married today, eh? Then little Sherlock will be next." Tavis winked. Sherlock felt his cheeks and chest flush. He knew that's what it meant, he was next in line, but he'd hoped to put it off for years. Mycroft was difficult to match, rejecting the first five suitors his mother brought forward. Gregory Lestrade was a rare love match. He came to their clan when his horse had lamed while traveling from his clan to trade wool. 

Even after his horse had healed, he'd found excuse after excuse to stay. The roof had to be re thatched. The fencing needed rocks replaced. Sheep had to change pasture. After three weeks, Greg asked the elder Holmes for Mycroft's hand in marriage. They'd all agreed, deciding to not deny themselves any longer, and thus forgoing the calling of the banns and a Church of Scotland wedding. Instead, they agreed to a handfasting and promises shared in front of their families.

Tavis passed Sherlock a cup of mead, encouraging Sherlock to join the rowdy conversation. Other cousins on the Wallace side, Norris, Gavin and Price, all made Sherlock feel like a tall and skinny pole. The two Holmes cousins, Jaime and Eric, favored Sherlock in their wiry looks and pale complexion. They all were loud, swapping stories of conquests. Sherlock had heard all these stories before, and, the same as before, he had nothing to contribute. 

Jaime took a swig of mead and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "I wish that fair maiden Molly were 'ere. She's a right beauty. I spent the last clan gathering kissing her fair face. She nearly swooned in my arms."

Gavin put his hand on his stomach and roared back and laughed, "Oh no, laddie, I caught you. It was you that was swooning. She had access to you under your kilt."

Jaime clapped his hand on Gavin's arm, raising his cup of mead in a salute, "Benefit of being a Scot. The family jewels can breathe, and the lasses and laddies we love have easy access to them. Easily able to touch them." 

Sherlock wrinkled his brow, "But we don't have any family jewels. We have some gold, but no large jewels. And if we did, why would you want people you hardly know putting their hands all over them?"

Sherlock's six cousins stopped and gawked at him. Norris dropped his glass of mead and stumbled to catch it. Eric opened and closed his mouth, finally speaking, "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't understand why they were looking at him with tilted heads and half smiles. He looked at Tavis for an explanation.

"Sherlock, has your mother and father not explained basics of lovemaking to you?"

Sherlock stared at him, "Well, yes, but what does that have to do with these family jewels you're talking about?"

Tavis' tone was kind, "It's a joke. Referring to your cock and balls. They're the 'family jewels.' "

Sherlock felt his face turn a deep crimson. He suddenly felt too warm, even in the early morning breeze. 

Price interjected, "Oy, Sherlock, you need to get used to this. Dressed as you are. You're going to be showing off your family jewels to your own laddie soon enough."

Sherlock looked down at his tartan, the pattern of which was different from anyone else at the wedding. 

"What do you mean? Mummy just gave this to me. I've no idea why. William didn't know why, either."

Tavis shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Dammit, Victoria."

Sherlock looked around at all his cousins. Now, rather than looking amused, they were frowning, scratching at their beards. They all turned to Tavis, waiting for him to speak. 

"Sherlock," Tavis began, swirling the mead around in his cup, "You're dressed in your potential betrothed's tartan. Your mother is declaring in front of everyone that you are betrothed by matchmaking."

Sherlock dropped his cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Some Scottish names and their origins ](http://babynameguide.mobi/scandinavian-baby-names.asp?strGender=&strAlpha=S&strCat=Scottish&strOrder=Name)
> 
> [ Information on 1800s Scotland ](http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/education/as/clearances/textonly_eng/1800.shtml)
> 
> [ More detailed tartan information ](http://www.tartansauthority.com/highland-dress/ancient/)


	3. Chapter 3

Tavis had to hold Sherlock's arm and guide him to his brother's side of the aisle. Sherlock stumbled, and Tavis reminded him to breathe. Sitting down beside his cousin, Sherlock whispered into his ear, "What do you know about what I'm wearing? What is my mother trying to accomplish?"

Tavis looked at Sherlock, his corn blue eyes soft, "I don't know, 'Lock, my da just said your mummy was close to a match. And she was placing you in your betrothed's tartan to draw attention to you when he arrives."

Sherlock couldn't breathe. His chest tightened as his vision darkened around the edges. He felt Tavis wrap his arm around his shoulder. Sherlock was full of so many questions, but he couldn't speak. The comforting voice of Tavis rumbled in Sherlock's ear, "When you meet him, if you don't like him, or if he's not good for you, we won't let you go through with it." Sherlock relaxed against Tavis' side. He felt comforted by his statement of support and the squeeze of his embrace. 

Sherlock continued to look through the crowd for another tartan that looked like his. Tavis poked him in the ribs to get him to face front. In the distance, beyond the barn, the bagpipes began their trilling tune. The wedding guests craned to watch the wedding party proceed through the meadow. The bagpipe player marched first, followed by the parents of the grooms and the grooms behind them. As they drew closer, Sherlock saw his parents carrying a white, embroidered cloth interwoven with a cord. The fabric was embroidered with light blues and yellows of both clan's tartans. 

Sherlock made himself focus on the ceremony and not the panicked thoughts running through his mind. As the eldest clansman, Stuart Holmes directed the ceremony with his wife by his side and the Lestrade family standing beside. Sherlock focused on his father telling everyone gathered the story of the two grooms' unique love match. He watched his red-haired brother, grinning, pledge his love, fidelity and belongings to a man he hardly knew. Gregory Lestrade, freckled and brunette, blushed as his hands shook while they wrapped the decorated tartan around their hands. At the end, they sealed the vows with a deep kiss and whoops and yells from the attendees. 

Jaime yelled out, "It's still early in the morning, lads! You'll have plenty o'time for that later!" Mycroft pulled away from his new husband, still attached by the hand with the wrapped tartan. He teetered a bit, Gregory pulling him close to kiss him on the cheek. Mycroft and Gregory looked down, resting their foreheads against each other, as they wove their fingers together. Mycroft looked up to the guests and called for silence. 

"Thank you. Thank you all for allowing me-" at this, his voice began to break. Gregory unwrapped the tartan so he could put his arm around his husband's waist, "For allowing us to marry. I love Gregory so much. It would have been easy to go through with a match-made arrangement. Thank you, mummy and daddy, and Serg and Kara Lestrade for giving your son to me."

Now Mycroft's eyes were wet with tears. Both sets of parents embraced the young men, and the guests responded with even louder yelling and cheers. 

Sherlock felt a pressure on his other side. He jumped. The old man in the white tartan was sitting on his other side, leaning in to catch his attention. He grinned, revealing a mouth of rotted teeth. 

"My grand nephew may be an arranged marriage to you, Lord Sherlock Holmes, but he's a good boy. I'm hoping it will turn into a love match over time."

Sherlock didn't stay for the home blessing. He ran, as quick as he could, back to his room. He sat on the floor, shaking, tears starting to pool up on his eyelashes. His bed, a mat on the floor, was covered with a beautiful patchwork quilt that his grandmother had made for him when he was a wee lad. When he was overwhelmed, he would stroke the fabric, running his fingers over the pattern, humming his mother's lullaby to himself. 

"My lassie is raven  
My lassie is fair  
My lassie is moonlight  
Wher'er to bear

I wait on the morrow   
For her to return   
My moonlight   
My lover   
My dream

She's pale as the pearl milk  
She's fair as the snow  
She's wise and she's wanted  
Whe'rer she go  
She's mine and she's lovely   
She's brave and she's true  
My lover forever  
My moonlight steeled blue"

As Sherlock reached the end of the third verse, the tears were flowing down his face and he was hiccuping to gulp air. His door crept open. He expected to see William, and instead, his mother greeted him. 

"Oh, my Sherlock," she fussed, sinking to her knees in front of her youngest son, "What a shock you've had." Victoria Holmes untucked the large part of her tartan and used it to wipe her son's face, pulling him close to cradle him. 

"Oh, my sweet, dear boy. You weren't supposed to find out that way. I was going to give you the tartan after you accepted the proposal. Oh, dear," She stroked his hair, which caused Sherlock to burrow further into her arms and cry harder. 

"You're innocent and young, Sherlock. I wanted someone who is a bit older, but who would be kind and patient with you. I found a man, a lovely man, who was slightly injured in his shoulder. He's quite handsome, and longs for a companion. He could offer you a substantially richer lifestyle and land and houses for our clan."

Victoria took Sherlock's face in her hands, looking in his eyes, "I want you to like him. To feel safe. I want you to have a choice," she sighed, pushing his hair out of his eyes, "But we are somewhat bound."

Sherlock nodded, "Because his great uncle saw me wearing his tartan."

She nodded, "Yes, my love. And I'm sorry. The agreement is for you to travel to his estate and have a two week engagement period before the marriage." 

Sherlock allowed his mummy to continue to stroke his hair. He felt his breath begin to slow. After a few minutes William entered the room. His eyes were bloodshot and he was shaking. 

"Master Sherlock," he collapsed beside where Sherlock and his mummy sat on the bed, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know the tartan was for later. Now you have to…I'll pack my things."

Sherlock reached out to William, patting his hand, "It was an honest mistake. You're not going anywhere. I need you with me." 

Sherlock stood up, wiping off his face one last time. He held out his hands to help his mother up off the floor. When William stood up, Sherlock looked at both of them. 

"You two might as well enjoy the celebration. I'd like to rest alone."

William and Mummy left him, Mummy leaving him with a kiss to the crown of his head. When alone, Sherlock carefully removed all his betrothed's tartan, laying it out carefully on his chair. 

When it was neatly laid out, and when he pulled his quilt over his head, he realized he didn't even know his betrothed's name.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock awoke to the sound of rain softly tapping against his roof. The sun had set long ago and it was now the middle of the night. He sighed, stretching, wiping off his face with his nightgown. He went to his nightstand, took out a lamp and matches, and dressed in his oldest clothes. He padded down the hallway, walking quietly past his parents' room. He was quiet as he walked past Mycroft's room until he remembered he wasn't home. He was surely at his house with his new husband. 

Sherlock's stomach twisted as he thought of having a husband. His brother had always thought only of books and of maximizing crop yields and sheep production. When Gregory Lestrade arrived leading his lame horse, Mycroft took more interest in the man's brown eyes and his laugh than his duties. Sherlock had caught them in the barn, facing each other, whispering and giggling, Gregory Lestrade tracing patterns onto Mycroft's palms with his fingertips.

His older brother had boxed his ears for staring but he just couldn't help it. He'd never seen that look on his brother's face. Sherlock didn't understand why his brother's cheeks were mottled pink and his ears red, nor why he was breathing so heavily. He was just standing there, barely touching another man!

Sherlock went to the front pasture, the area where the wedding had taken place just barely visible in the moonlight. He walked through the dewy grass, his leather sandals soaking in the cold moisture. His only pangs of regret were from missing the dancing. No matter how shy he felt while talking, he always loved how brave and lovely he felt while dancing. 

His beloved seanmháthair, the same who'd made his quilt, taught him all the traditional Scottish dances. When he was still knobby kneed, she walked him through wedding dances and celebration partner dances. 

Alone, in his raggedy clothes and his lantern casting a yellow glow to compliment the moonlight, Sherlock danced. He set his lantern on one of the stone benches that served as a seat for his brother's wedding the day before. 

He spun, and jumped, and twirled. He thought only of the moves, and how to best turn his body to pitch his legs so the kicks were proper. As the sweat began to drop off his forehead, trickling down his collarbone, sliding down his spine. As the moon rose, and as he began to chill, he decided to go back into his home and pass the rest of the night.

When he turned, he jumped. At the edge of his lamp's light he could just see a squat, sturdy, black as midnight stallion. Mounted upon the stallion, with a simple cloth and leather saddle, was a man with his upper plaid wrapped around him as a cloak. 

The tartan pattern was dark and could have matched Sherlock's betrothed's, but in the dim light it was hard to be sure. 

Before Sherlock could ask any questions, the man pulled away his plaid cloak and let it slip off of his shoulders. He was completely bare chested. He took a moment to wrap the tartan fittings around his shoulder in a few quick tugs and a tuck into his kilt. 

"Hello," the man said, his voice was light, and friendly. It was hard for Sherlock to tell the man's features or hair color in the dark light, but his hair had a shine in the moonlight. 

"Hello," Sherlock squeaked back. He was unsure what to ask next. Luckily, the man on the horse kept speaking. 

"I'm late. I was set to arrive yesterday, but I had some sheep that were ill. Is this the Holmes clan home?"

Sherlock tried to swallow. His mouth was dry. He nodded. 

"I guess it's right on 3 am. Are you the stable boy? Would you have a place in the barn I could sleep until a decent hour until I could come calling?"

Sherlock was dumbstruck. _Stable boy? Oh._ The way he was dressed and the hour of night he was out. Easy assumption. He thought quickly. 

"Yes, there is a spare bed closest to the cow door and stable. It's a small bed but it's been cleaned up and it's warm. We can put the horse up near you. The horse and the straw will keep you warm."

The stranger on the horse nodded, "Thank you," he jumped down, leading his horse. As he pulled his lead, the stranger introduced himself, "I'm John by the way, John Watson."

"Nice to meet you, Lord Watson," Sherlock sidestepped introducing himself, "I hope you'll be comfortable here."

"Better than sleeping on my horse!" He laughed, pulling on the reins and guiding the horse into the stable. Sherlock laughed when the horse flicked its tail and swatted John Watson in the face, "Well, apparently my horse is more picky about accommodations."

John led the horse to the stable, gently circling the stallion so he grew acclimated to the stall. He tied him to the hitch post and picked up a hand full of clean stray from the floor, then rubbed it across his horse's sweaty coat. The horse whinnied, then laid itself down. 

Through the archway just off the stall was a small groomsman room. Sherlock was unsure of the man's wealth and status. 

"Sir, are you sure that the room off the stall will work? Or should I put you in the house?"

In the moonlight streaming through the window, and from the faint lamplight he saw John shake his head. "No, no. I don't want to impose or wake them."

John peeled off the long tartan, wrapping it up as a pillow, bending over to fluff up the straw bed on the floor. Sherlock caught a glance of long, lean muscular thigh from underneath the kilt. 

"Do you need anything else?" Sherlock asked, squinting in in the darkness, trying to see the man's face. 

The man in the bed popped up slightly, pushing up on his elbow. He looked over Sherlock, tilting his head, "May I ask a question of you?"

Sherlock nodded. When John failed to speak, Sherlock realized it was probably too dark to see him nodding. He replied, "Yes."

"What do you know of the youngest Holmes? And the Holmes clan? Are they good people?"

Sherlock was dumbfounded. John Watson truly believed he was one of the stable boys or a hired hand, and a hired hand he trusted quite quickly. Sherlock ran through scenarios of what to say that would be truthful but not give himself away, but he was stuck. 

He'd taken so long to answer that John felt the need to fill the silence, "I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that. Especially if I've put you in an uncomfortable position."

Sherlock nodded. He replied, "Can you ask a more specific question? Something that I can truly describe or answer?"

John sat up a moment, then asked, "Does he dance like you? Was the dance you were doing when I rode up a traditional family dance?"

Sherlock kept everything close to the truth, "Yes. I embellish it a bit, but it's close to their traditional dance."

John Watson shifted, and Sherlock could see his bicep and downy underarm hair just visible in the dark light. He turned his head a bit to give some privacy. 

"Did they dance like that at the wedding?"

Sherlock answered quickly,"I didn't stay for most of it." He looked at Lord Watson's eyes. Leaning closer, the lamplight shone just enough to reveal his eyes were blue. Sherlock felt his neck flush, so he raised his shoulder length hair a bit so the breeze would travel under his collar. 

The stranger continued, "They kept you busy, then?"

Sherlock simply mumbled in the affirmative. _In a way._

"Are they kind masters, the brothers, the youngest? Is he kind?"

Sherlock swallowed. It was difficult to speak of oneself in the third person. He decided to go with the description his Seanmháthair always gave new visitors. 

"He is a diamond in the rough. He's quiet, shy, but smart. He lets few people in to see his true self. One has to earn it."

Sherlock shocked even himself at how easy the description rolled off his tongue. He looked into Lord Watson's face. He was rolling his shoulder, attempting to stretch it out. His face had a slight grimace of pain from his shoulder, but he was grinning none the less. 

"I look very forward to meeting him."

Sherlock left Lord John Watson to sleep, the time now nearing 4 am, the light pink beginning to streak across the sky. 

It wasn't until he was back in his bed until he remembered his mother mentioned his betrothed's shoulder injury. An image of Lord John Watson massaging his shoulder drifted into his mind as he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seanmháthair = grandmother


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock slept during the early morning in fits and starts. As the brighter light gradually streamed through his window, he crawled down to the bottom of his bed. He pulled yesterday's wedding clothes into bed with him. He touched his new betrothed's tartan, rolling the fabric through and over his fingers. John Watson, the late wedding guest, had worn a patterned tartan similar to this. However, he couldn't be exactly sure. The light had been too dim.

Sherlock stood, trailing part of the tartan behind him, leaving the kilt on the bed. He quietly tiptoed to his door, listening for voices. He heard the voice of his father and another male voice. From down the hallway, and with their backs turned, he couldn't tell who his Da was speaking with. He couldn't imagine it was anyone other than John Watson, but he couldn't tell from the mumbled voice. 

He snuck out the back hallway, through where the stable archway led. He went into the stable, and there was John Watson's magnificent black stallion. In the bright morning light he could see he was larger, and more magnificent, than he had realized at first. He was a black Eriskey, 13.2 hands, a rare animal by all accounts. Currently, he was pacing, swaying, pulling on his lead. His ears were back. He was anxious. Without thinking, barefoot and with just his nightclothes on, Sherlock took the horse out for fresh air. 

As he was leading the stallion into the pasture, Sherlock felt a pang of sadness. He missed his Seanmháthair. When she was alive, they had horses. She taught him how to ride, and she would've been here to help him lead this stallion. She had been part of an arranged marriage, so she would've known how to behave, and what to expect. She had married a man, so she could've explained what to expect. She could've been there, at the wedding the day before, keeping him from panicking. She may have even prevented their family from lowering into poverty, thus avoiding the need for an arranged match all together. 

As he held the horse's neck, he smelled its familiar scent of hay and sweat. He missed his horses. Of running his Shetland pony through the field when he was young, rounding up their large herds of sheep from pasture to pasture. 

Now, they had one small flock, a withered patch of land, and one black horse for as far as the eye could see. A horse that didn't belong to their family. 

Sherlock felt the horse push into him, wrapping his neck around to get to some grass behind him. Sherlock laughed, feeling tears prick out of the corners of his eyes. He remembered riding his horses barebacked in this very pasture, and he longed to feel like a child again. Safe. Care free. Happy. 

The horse seemed gentle, so Sherlock rubbed its back, clicked at it, and hopped on. It moved to the side, but kept eating. Sherlock grinned. He felt incredibly tall, with his curly hair blowing in the breeze and the horse just slowly walking. He tapped the horse's sides with his bare heels, and the horse started to slowly walk, nibbling as he went. Sherlock couldn't keep himself from giggling. It was mid morning, the sky was sunny and lovely and he was riding a beautiful horse near his home. He let the worries of his arranged marriage fade away with the cantering of the horse's gait, as he held onto the horse at the tuft of hair at the base of its neck. 

Sherlock lost track of how many times he rounded the pasture on the horse. On coming back round to the house the last time, he saw John Watson and his father watching him. As he got closer, he saw Lord Watson's face was pale, and he was shaking his head. As he got closer, he stopped the horse right in front of the two men. As he jumped off the back off the horse, he came around the front, leading the horse. The stallion was completely calm. 

John Watson was wearing his betrothed's tartan. He was staring into his face. 

John turned to Sherlock's Da, "Your stable boy is amazing, Lord Holmes. This stallion normally bucks everyone off. Nearly killed a man. I thought this young boy was going to be hurt for sure. But he rode him like a natural."

Sherlock swallowed. He knew he must look a fright. Covered in dust and horse hair, not having a proper bath for a few days, wearing his nightclothes, his father must be mortified. 

Instead, his Da laughed. 

"I'm sorry, Lord Watson, I hope you aren't too disappointed. At least your _horse_ quite likes your fiancé. I hope you take that into consideration. This isn't the stable boy," the elder Holmes brought Sherlock into a side embrace, "This is my youngest, Sherlock."

John looked at Sherlock, cocking his eyebrow. Sherlock wanted to take in all his features, but he was embarrassed. He could tell, by stealing small glances, that John Watson was tanned, blonde, blue eyed, and had a bright smile. 

"I'm sorry if I wasn't to take out your horse. He just seemed restless," Sherlock said. 

John smiled, "It's perfectly all right."

Sherlock stood near his father, but smiled back at John. He didn't feel or seem frightening. And if he had horses, that would give him something to pass the time.


	6. Chapter 6

Seanmháthair had explained to him, again and again, that either he or Mycroft would need to find an advantageous match in marriage. She'd known, years earlier, that the drought would come. She knew how foolish her one daughter would be, drunk on whiskey, leaving her children to fend for themselves. Tavis, Norris, Gavin and Price would have starved to death if not for the kindness and generosity of Victoria and Stuart Holmes. But kindness and generosity only go so far when there are eight mouths to feed. Especially on a farmstead only meant to hold a clan of four. They saved, worked together, used wits and strength, but it was still not enough.

To keep alive, they would need to marry, to align themselves with another clan. 

Mycroft had offered to marry a bachelor from the very wealthy and powerful Campbell clan if they made a move. He was even willing to do so after he'd fallen in love with Gregory Lestrade. 

Sherlock loved his brother. He didn't quite understand grown up love between partners, but he knew his brother would regret it the rest of his life if he were separated from Lord Lestrade. 

Sherlock had never felt that way about another person, and he didn't think he ever would. He loved his family, in his own way, but he preferred his He was of age, just 19, so he consented to be matched in place of his brother. Because he loved his family. 

That love, to see his family from losing their home, was what kept him from running away from John Watson out of pure nervousness. That is what kept him standing, in their field, with his father, John and John's stallion. 

Sherlock stood closer to his father, gently passing the stallion's lead to his betrothed's. John Watson's hand touched his for the first time as he passed the horse's lead from one hand to the other. Sherlock quickly moved his hand away, dropping it to his side. 

Sherlock's Da chastised him, "Sherlock, you can at least hold his hand. You'll be doing more than that soon enough."

Sherlock felt incredibly small. He recalled stories of his cousins' arranged marriages and their wedding nights and the pain they endured. What they endured even beyond the first night. Of course. He was expected to touch, and be touched, and to not say no. His father was preparing him for this and  
gestured for him to reach out to John. 

Lord Watson stepped in between his Da and Sherlock, with his horse still behind him. Though John was shorter than both Sherlock and his father, he was muscular, his chest thick, and he puffed it out, his head held high. 

"Master Holmes, Sherlock is rùnach. He does not have to touch me if he does not want to do so, nor is he expected to let me touch him if it is not welcome. He is his own person, but my betrothed. You've panicked him."

Sherlock swallowed. He was worried for his family's sake, that he had offended his match, but John didn't seem to be withdrawing his intent to marry. He seemed to be staking a claim. 

John turned, smiling. His smile was bright and crinkled his cheeks, "Please do not be frightened of me. You may have, or not have, what you like."

Sherlock didn't smile often. He felt himself grin. His Da clapped him on the shoulder, "I'll leave you fiancées to it, then. Two weeks planning is quick to get to your estate, Master Watson. I've got to wake the hungover lads. I figure a good bit of shouting and banging pots should get them roused up!"

His Da cackled to himself, leaving John and Sherlock alone. Sherlock looked down, watching the horse paw at the ground with its front hoof. 

"So," John cleared his throat, "You're not the stable boy, then?"

Sherlock looked into his face. _Hadn't they established that?_ But his smile, and his crossed arms, indicated he was teasing him. 

"No," Sherlock replied, scratching the back of his head, "I do like horses, though. When I was little I would help my Seanmháthair with the flock by herding with my horse. We haven't been able to have horses in years."

Sherlock felt a pang of sadness again. This was new, and foreign. He was unsure what to say or how to behave. 

"Did you get the dress kilt and tartan I'd sent?"

Sherlock nodded. 

"Did you wear it?" John's face looked so hopeful as he asked. He'd let go of the reins, and the horse had walked a few paces away. The sun was streaming, and the sky was bright blue. He knew the significance of the question. He didn't doubt his mother's true intention for a moment, honest mistake she claimed it was. 

"Yes," Sherlock decided on the truth, "It was laid out for me to wear at the wedding."

"I bet you looked beautiful. With your long curls and your alabaster skin," John stepped closer, "May I hold your hand?" 

Sherlock nodded. His heart thrummed as he felt John's fingers circle his wrist and both his hands engulf Sherlock's left one, "Sherlock, will you allow me to court you? Will you marry me after these two weeks?"

Sherlock knew he didn't feel about John what Mycroft felt for Greg, but John didn't displease or repulse him. He appeared kind, had conveyed he wouldn't expect what Sherlock wasn't willing to give, and he thought Sherlock was beautiful. He was the match that would keep their family from losing everything. He would need to be perfect. 

"Yes, I will."

John continued smiling, and John giggled when he looked down at Sherlock. To his mortification, Sherlock realized he had accepted a marriage proposal in his nightclothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rùnach = beloved


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock allowed his betrothed to hold his hand on the way back to his home, the stallion calmly walking behind them. Sherlock asked quietly, "Are you staying here for a few days? Before we leave?"

He hated how his voice cracked, but he was thinking of never seeing his brother and his cousins. He wanted to be able to say goodbye to them. 

"What would you like to do, Sherlock?"

He paused after he spoke, looking in Sherlock's face, honestly seeking Sherlock's approval or opinion. 

"I have my four cousins. I'd like to tell them goodbye," Sherlock had to stop speaking. He felt tears start to run down his cheeks. John stopped walking, placing his hands on either side of his tear-streaked face. 

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying," Sherlock said, putting his hand over one of John's. John brushed Sherlock's tears off his cheeks, moving his hands back, lifting his hair up off his neck. 

"I understand, leannan. You may stay as home as long as you like. We can get married here. You're so young. I don't-"

John appeared as if he wanted to say something else, but he stopped himself. Instead, he continued to stroke Sherlock's shoulder length curls, smoothing them down. 

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock was unsure how to answer the question. He was perspiring from the hot sun and the nervousness from needing to be careful with what he said. He knew his face must be flushed. 

"Yes, just tired."

John brought out from the folds of his kilt a handkerchief. It was white and delicate, and embroidered on the edge was the filigreed initials J. H. W. 

John gave the handkerchief to Sherlock, pressing it gently into his palm. Sherlock put it up to brow and used it to dab at the perspiration. He tried to hand it back, but John insisted he keep it. 

When they arrived back at the home, John parted to lead his stallion and Sherlock went up to his room. Though it was only nearly noon, he felt tired. When he arrived in his room William was pouring boiling water into the copper tub. John Watson's betrothal clothes had been refreshed and laid on the bed with a satchel of dried lavender and mint. 

"Come, Lord Sherlock. Let us get you clean. We will get you dressed and beautiful. Your husband to be has seen you in just your scraps long enough."

Sherlock stripped down, sinking into the nearly too hot water. As his skin turned pink, he scrubbed at it with the ball of soap William handed him. After a few moments, he crushed fragrant leaves into his bath water. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a question.

"It is Seanmháthair's old recipe for blessing and good luck," William's voice cracked as he continued speaking, "She made me promise that upon on your betrothal that I would be especially kind to you, and bless you, and prepare you with all the gifts she gave me for you."

Sherlock nodded, wiping the tears away with the bath water. The fragrance of the crushed leaves was similar to roses, lilacs and spiced mead. It was invigorating. 

"The ingredients will perk up your skin and enhance the rosiness in your lips and cheeks. I have some rose oil for your skin and your hair. I have some plain oil to give you for bedroom uses."

Sherlock dropped his soap when William mentioned bedroom oil. Of course, he'd been talked to about the basic mechanics of lovemaking, but he couldn't understand how those particular acts between two men could be pleasurable.

He closed his eyes and laid back in the bath. He'd enjoyed the company of men, and understood them better, which is why he'd agreed to a match with a male. Unlike his cousin Jaime, he didn't feel the need to kiss and hug and touch up any girl that came upon their farmstead. 

The only girl Sherlock showed any interest in was an older girl Sally who helped him with an experiment. The neighboring clan was losing horses and sheep to an unknown illness. They'd reached out to Sherlock for his assistance. To reach a conclusion, their daughter Sally helped him dissect the the neighboring clan's horses and sheep. They'd discovered the animals had gotten into some rotten feed that was hidden in the back of their stable.

He'd felt no desire to touch or kiss Sally, or bring her to the side barn to be alone. He'd appreciated her help, and her thoughts and funny stories, but he didn't feel any need for touching. 

Sherlock jumped when he heard the door open. He covered himself up and folded over, assuming it was John coming through. He grinned when he saw it was Tavis. He was tanned and smelled of the sun and hay. 

" 'Lock, becoming beautiful?" He laughed, sitting on the bed. William continued with his treatments, pouring out some rose oil to put on Sherlock's curls. 

"Yes, all of this is Seanmháthair's recipes for my wedding."

Tavis grinned, splashing the water at Sherlock, "She loved you. She'd be so proud of you." 

Sherlock leaned on his forearms, looking at Tavis, giving William access to comb through and place decorative braids throughout his shoulder length curls. He took glass beads to clip the ends of the braids to keep them in place. As he worked on his hair, Tavis quizzed him. 

"You've met him, then?"

Sherlock nodded. 

"Do you like him?" Tavis asked. He looked into Sherlock's face, staring into his eyes, "Has he been kind to you so far?"

"Yes. He said in front of Da that I didn't have to touch him if I didn't want to, and he wouldn't touch me if I didn't want it."

Tavis looked at Sherlock, grabbing a towel from Sherlock's bed. He started to speak, then stopped, then restarted again, "Have you ever wanted to, Sherlock? I've never seen you with anyone. Do you understand how lovemaking works between men?"

"Of course!" Sherlock snapped, grabbing the towel as he stood up out of the tub. He noticed Tavis give William a long-suffering look.

"Sherlock," Tavis started, as he brought over his kilt, helping Sherlock dress in the layers. As he helped dress him, William worked on oiling his skin. "I know you understand the mechanics, but there is more to it. Do you have plain oil?"

Sherlock nodded. He was flushed, wishing the conversation was over, "William gave me some."

"Keep it on you. You don't know when you'll be struck. It's different than making love to a woman. Women produce their own lubrication when they're amorous, but men have to use oil so it doesn't hurt. You can also use other methods that feel good. You can touch each other. Kiss. Give each other pleasure without penetrating into one or the other. But penetrating your lover feels like nothing else. A connection. When you are penetrated, there is a nerve your lover strikes. It feels incredibly good to be touched. Pleasure like nothing else."

Sherlock felt warm, but he couldn't imagine feeling like doing _that_ to anyone. To touch someone's genitals, to be penetrated and covered in oil, even to be kissed and naked all seemed foreign. He felt grateful for the explanation, but he felt even more so that John seemed happy to not pursue his conjugal rights. 

Tavis touched Sherlock's cheek, "Are you alright, rùnach?" He draped the tartan around Sherlock's shoulders, smoothing all his clothing, "If John Watson is not good to you , Sherlock, I will kill him. He knows that."

Tavis winked. Sherlock was completely dressed and properly oiled and perfumed. Tavis held out his arm. 

"Let's make your grand entrance, darling cousin. Let's have a late lunch with John Watson so I can properly terrorize him to treat you gently."

Sherlock breathed a little easier going to the lunch table knowing his cousin was at his side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leannan = sweetheart


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock held Tavis' arm as he walked into the dining room. Stuart and Victoria Holmes had opened up all the doors and windows to allow the midday breeze to come through the house. They had prepared a simple meal of potatoes and bread for the noon meal, but Sherlock caught the scent of lamb and a large smoking fire. His family was preparing something larger for a celebratory evening meal.

Sherlock felt a bit dizzy with the crisp scent of rose oil wafting around him. He was not used to being perfumed. As Tavis led him to the head-side of the dining table, his family was milling about and shuffling to make room for all the cousins. Norris, Gavin, Price and Tavis had lived there for years with Mycroft and Sherlock, but Jamie and Eric were still visiting from the wedding, and presumably Greg hadn't taken Mycroft to his homestead yet. It was a full table.

"Aye," Eric yelled across the room, " 'Lock can sit by me for once. Misters Holmes-Lestrade were still shaking their bed-posts so I threw them some bread and ran away. They won't be joining us for a long while yet." 

Sherlock bit his lip. When he married, would his cousins continue with this never ending set of jokes and innuendos? Would he be nearly laughed at every time he left he and his husband's bedroom? He imagined it for a moment, then realized there may not be much to tease or discuss. He couldn't imagine he and his betrothed doing anything to make noise or shake a bed. 

Sherlock stood next to Eric. Stuart on this head of the table, Victoria on the other. On Sherlock's other side was an empty chair, waiting for their guest of honor. Once everyone was positioned in front of their seats they waited. After a quarter hour the talking quieted as John Watson entered the dining room.

Sherlock felt a bit less shy in looking at him. John Watson was truly shorter, but compact with muscle. He was bronzed where Sherlock was pale. His hair was golden sunshine where Sherlock's was raven black. John's hair was a bit scraggly, but it was shorn close to the head. Sherlock had shoulder length ringlets. John wore a cropped, light ginger beard. Sherlock didn't have much facial hair, and what he did have he kept shaved. They were quite the opposite looking couple, but they wore matching dark tartans. 

John smiled at everyone, greeting them. He moved to the only empty chair at Sherlock's side. As they all sat, Sherlock felt John's hand brush his. 

As everyone broke bread, Mummy Holmes questioned John Watson. All the side conversation at the table stopped when she spoke. 

"When you accepted the agreement, Lord Watson, did you want to leave right away with your betrothed and start your lives together right away?"

Sherlock pushed his plate away and looked down at his hands. He felt invisible, and wished he actually were so. 

Eric tapped Sherlock's knee lightly with his fingers, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock tried to nod, but he couldn't. He was terrified he would burst into tears. He dug his fingernails from his right hand into his left palm. He didn't raise his head, but lifted his eyes just enough to see Tavis looking back at him from across the table. Tavis' lips were pursed into a thin line. 

"Well," John began, pushing the fringe out of his eyes. He looked around at everyone at the table as he spoke, "That's all up to Sherlock. I've money, and land, and livestock, but no close family. My parents died of illness. My sister married and moved away to live with her wife. I've only got my grandpa's brother and the farmhands to watch all the inheritance. It's easier for me to move my belongings to him than it is for him to move his family."

Mummy Holmes raised her glass in a toast, and the conversation at the table picked back up again. Sherlock's heart was hammering in his throat. So much he imagined that John Watson must hear it. He leaned over to him, his chin just raised slightly. 

"Jo-John?" Sherlock hated how small his voice sounded. But John turned and looked up at him. His smile was so bright. 

"Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was incredibly nervous, but he knew he had to say something. 

"What you did just then, with my mother, that was…that was very good. Thank you."

Sherlock wanted to look down again, but he forced himself to keep eye contact. He wanted John Watson to know how much he appreciated that he gave him a choice. That he wasn't treating him as property, or as something to be used and tossed aside. John had already shown himself to be kind, and Sherlock wanted him to know he appreciated it. 

"Sherlock," John said it softly and with tenderness, "I know leaving your family would make you unhappy. How could I wish to make you unhappy? I want whatever you want."

Sherlock felt himself flush again. He couldn't help speaking, "But we don't know each other. You don't know me!"

John turned in to face him, moving his chair a little closer. He whispered to him, "You are blood of my blood and bone of my bone. Why would I not want you to be happy?" 

As John spoke, Sherlock turned his head, causing their faces to nearly connect. John crinkled his nose, "You smell lovely."

"Rose oil. My seanmháthair gave my helper William the recipe for the rose oil and the unscented oil for-"

Sherlock shut his mouth. He watched John's smile quirk to the side and his eyebrow raise.

"Where is this unscented oil now?" John asked, not breaking eye contact as he threw back a glass of mead.

Sherlock tried to gulp air into his lungs. Did John expect to use the oil right now? Was that part of the betrothal process? Is that why William had bathed him and Tavis had given him the unscented oil to carry on him at all times? Was he expected to just do it with him whenever he wanted?

"Sherlock," John spoke softly but firmly, placing his hand over his, "You look like a spooked horse."

Sherlock looked in John's pale blue eyes. He couldn't disappoint his family. Shaking, he pulled the oil out of his kilt's pocket fold. He whispered to John, "I carry it with me. Tavis told me to be prepared. Am I expected to do this with you now? Whenever? To keep you happy?"

John gave him a frightening look. His brow was furrowed. He looked up at Tavis, then back at Sherlock. When John spoke again, his voice was quiet, but thunderous. 

"Tavis, will you escort my betrothed and I outside please?"

John pushed his chair back, grabbing the oil and pocketing it into his own kilt. He held out his hand, and Sherlock took it, shaking. He had no idea what Tavis had to do with what John was going to do to him. 

When the three were outside, John asked to speak with Tavis alone. Sherlock heard only bits and pieces of his conversation, but he was angry. Though Tavis was taller and heavier, Sherlock could tell he was frightened. 

Sherlock couldn't catch every word, but John said something regarding "Ideas in his head" and "terrifying" and "he does not need to be afraid."

After a few minutes,when John's face was red and Tavis looked fully chastised, both of them walked over to Sherlock. Tavis offered to go back inside, but John cut him off, "No, I want you to witness this, too."

John stood in front of Sherlock. He looked sad. Had he disappointed him somehow? 

"Sherlock," John held his hands out, palms off, gesturing for Sherlock to hold them, but not forcing. Sherlock took his hands, feeling the callouses on John's thumbs rub against Sherlock's smooth knuckles. 

"My darling, your family may tease you," John threw Tavis a scathing look, "but if we ever make love, or touch, or kiss at all, it will only be because _you_ ask me explicitly to do so. You are the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. But I will never hurt you. Or frighten you. Or make you do anything you don't want to. We can have separate rooms if you want. You're young and innocent. I'm an old man who has lived through many heartaches. I know what it feels like to have one's heart broken. I won't do that to you. No matter what foolish things other people tell you."

Sherlock hardly breathed as John had spoken. His eyes never turned away, his voice never waivered. When John finished he leaned in close to Sherlock, pausing long enough for the younger man's consent. When Sherlock didn't flinch, John kissed him tenderly on the cheek. 

"I have nothing to remind me of you, Sherlock Holmes. You have my tartan. What token can I have of yours?"

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls. They caught on one of his braids. John rolled one of the beads in his fingers. It was a bluish green bead that changed color depending on the way it was held in the light. 

"This one reminds me of your eyes," John said gently, "May I place it on my sporran to remind me of you? To remind _you_ that I am yours? And you are not to be frightened of me?"

Sherlock nodded. He bent down so John could more easily reach his braid to undo it. He heard Tavis snicker. John replied with a sharp "Shut it, now!" which miraculously kept Tavis quiet the rest of the evening. 

When the bead was free, Sherlock used his oiled fingers to help John undo a leather thong on the sporran to thread it through the bead. His face turned red when he realized how close his hands were to John's intimate parts, but he was no longer shakingly afraid. He felt safe. 

After the bead was placed, the only clear bead amongst a grouping of white, the three men turned to walk back to the house. As they approached, they newlyweds emerged from the smaller side house to join them for the noon meal. 

Noticing the stranger, and that his younger brother was wearing the same tartan as him, Mycroft Holmes asked, "What did we miss?"

Tavis manhandled them around the shoulders, pushed them into the doorway, whispering, "Nevermind. I'll explain everything inside."

This left John and Sherlock with an excuse to be alone outside for a few moments. They were still standing incredibly closed.

"You are much better dressed than the last time I saw you when we were outside."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. The entire situation was quite funny. 

John's came closer, keeping his eyes focused, "Sherlock, you don't have to do this. If you don't want to. We could find a way to merge flocks in trust, or set up loans. You don't have to marry me."

Sherlock felt frightened. He had visions of his family starving. Everything disappearing. 

"You don't want to marry me?"

John stood close, asking for permission to put his hand on Sherlock's face, "I didn't say that. I would never say that. Your family needs income. And assistance. There are other ways we can do that besides marriage."

Sherlock had always been terrified of a marriage match. He'd been preparing himself to fight or run away. But now that he was matched, he didn't want to do either of those things.

"Your great uncle. He was at my brother's wedding. My brother's wedding was a love match."

John smiled, and rubbed his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone, "I'm not following what you're saying, luaidh"

"Your great uncle saw I was wearing your tartan at my brother's wedding. He said to me that I was in an arranged marriage with you that he hoped would turn into a love match over time. You're kind. I'm not afraid. I can help you. I may not be what you want, I'm young and naïve, but I'm smart. I would be happy to be with you. In whatever way that is."

Without thinking about it, Sherlock surprised himself by lifting up John's hand and kissing it. He pressed his lips to the knuckles, then to the palm. He had seen his parents kiss each other's hands that way, and his brother had kissed Gregory's hand that way. Perhaps he would feel affection for his betrothed if he acted it, the way he saw his parents and brother do so. 

When he raised his head, Sherlock saw John's eyes were partially closed and his mouth was open. He flicked his tongue out and licked his lips. 

"We should go back inside, Sherlock, before they come looking for us."

Towards the end of the noon meal, when it was time to be preparing for the celebration feast, Sherlock took some time to lay down and rest. Sherlock caught himself touching his lips, wondering what it would feel like to put his lips on John Watson's lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luaidh = cherished one


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read updated tags

Sherlock had prepared a satchel to conduct a pasture experiment. He figured it would calm his nerves. Before he made it out the door William stopped him, advising John wanted to see him. 

John was sitting on top of Tavis' mare, Soilleir. John's stallion was pawing and waiting next to him, already saddled. 

"Why aren't you on _your_ horse?" Sherlock asked, rubbing the stallion's neck. He looked up at John, who smiled down at him. 

"I bought this mare from Tavis. Soilleir is now mine. I'm giving my stallion Laoch to you."

Sherlock couldn’t speak. He wrapped his arms around the midnight black neck and squeezed. 

"You're giving me your stallion?"

John leaned down, looking into Sherlock's eyes, "Yes. A wedding gift."

Sherlock shuffled closer to John, placing his hand on his calf, "But I have no gift to give you."

John leaned down, his foot gently ticking Sherlock's ribs, "The look of joy and delight in your eyes is gift enough. Get on him and let's go for a ride."

Sherlock bounced up and used the stallion's mane to climb upon his back. He hadn't regularly ridden a horse for years, something he'd missed so desperately, and now he'd been given a horse of his own. He looked at his betrothed. Even though Soilleir was smaller and overweight, John looked regal upon her. He looked every bit of a clan leader, familiar with hard work and defending his flock and land from others. He imagined his Da had looked that way years ago, handsome and ready to take on the world. 

"Well, race you?"

John didn't wait for an answer. He took off at a gallop towards the eastern stream. He galloped past Sherlock's entire family, including his cousins, who were busy preparing the lamb and seating arrangements for the betrothal celebration. As Sherlock shot past, he caught a glimpse of Mycroft and Gregory sitting close on one of the tree stump benches, kissing. Sherlock couldn’t imagine wanting to be that close to anyone else every waking moment of the day. 

Laoch, the stallion, quickly caught up to John's mare, Soilleir. Sherlock laughed as he pranced the stallion in circles around John. John hollered at him, "If you're going to be a show off, I may change my mind!"

Sherlock crinkled his brow for a moment, but realized that John was teasing again. Sherlock decided to try and tease back, "You've not even begun to _see_ me show off, yet!" 

John grinned, coaxing the horse to speed up. Sherlock urged his steed to go faster, finding the well-worn path to the swimming hole off of the rocky stream. The stream was the most important piece of their land that they'd held onto, as the water source kept the rest of the farmstead afloat when the drought came. Everything was green and lush. It was a perfect place to water their horses. Far enough from the house, and surrounded by short trees, it was Sherlock's favorite place to be alone. 

He put the stallion in an old enclosure that he'd built years before to keep his pony in. He went across the stream, splashing his feet in the cold water, sitting himself into the cradle of a large tree. This was his thinking spot. The tree branches provided shade, but there was an opening where he could still see the sky. 

John called for him a few minutes later. Sherlock snuck around the trees, watching him, keeping hidden. John put Soilleir in the same paddock as Laoch, then put his hands on his hips, looking around. He called out again, then he began to cross the stream. When he was nearly across, Sherlock jumped out from the bush, frightening John. He fell, crashing against a tree branch as he slipped into the stream. 

It took him a moment to surface. Sherlock panicked. _Had he hurt him?_ He went into the water, "John? John?!" His cries became more panicked. When he reached him, John surfaced, laughing and sputtering, "You're worse than Gilfaethwy, dear one." John allowed Sherlock to guide him to the bank. Before he sat down beside Sherlock, John, dripping water, shook himself like a dog and covered Sherlock in a spray of droplets. 

"Oye, stop it!" Sherlock yelped, pulling away, covering his face with his arm.

"You started this, you made me fall in the stream," John said, tripping over himself as he sat down. He caught himself with his left arm, wrenching his left shoulder. He fell down beside Sherlock. 

"John. John, are you playing? What's wrong?"

John tried to shuffle up using only half of his body, but couldn't. He hissed in pain, "No, Sherlock, I'm not playing. I fell on my injured shoulder. Can you help me?"

Sherlock knelt, putting his arm around John's waist. He hoisted John up to standing. John laughed, "You're much stronger than you look." Sherlock laughed. They walked together to a shaded area by the paddock. Sherlock laid John down gently onto the grass. 

"What did you do?"

"Re-injured an old wound." John tried to wrestle himself out of his tartan. After a few false starts, Sherlock gingerly went up to John, allowing John's hands to guide him. Sherlock helped him, taking off his tartan wrap and shirt, stopping short of taking off his kilt. John swore, sitting down in a thump onto the grass. 

Sherlock sat beside him, watching John shiver in his wet clothing. 

"John, take your clothes off, you're freezing," John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock ignored the look and kept talking, "You can wear my dry plaid while your clothes dry in the sun."

Sherlock ignored his protests, taking John's wet plaid, his shirt and sporran, laying them out across bushes. Sherlock unwound his dry plaid, keeping his back to John, handing it over his shoulder to him. 

John attempted to pull his wet kilt off by himself, but Sherlock heard him rolling around on the ground, crunching leaves and twigs. Sherlock turned, seeing half of John's kilt popped down under a hip, his white skin on his iliac crest a marked line from the bronze skin where his kilt normally hung. John was trying to push his heavy and wet kilt off with his right hand only. 

"Sherlock," John looked up at him. The wet fabric was sticking to him, and Sherlock could see everything. His knees, his muscled thighs, the juncture of his legs, and his manhood jutting up and tenting the kilt. 

"I'm not afraid, John," he said, sitting close, placing his fingers on his wet knee, "You're my betrothed."

"I don't want you to be afraid," John answered, moving Sherlock's fingers away, attempting to grab the dry plaid from him. 

"John!" Sherlock commanded. John stopped moving, "I just told you. You're my betrothed. We are going to see each other undressed eventually. Let me help you."

John stopped squirming, and allowed Sherlock to unwrap the wet kilt. He did his best to keep his eyes on John's face, but he was curious. He pulled the wet fabric down, taking a moment to look at his hips, his pubic bones, his thatch of hair. His intention was to pull off the kilt and immediately cover him with the plaid to preserve his modesty, but when John Watson was lying on the ground naked, completely open, Sherlock was distracted. The very area that was palest was the most beautiful. His cock was different from his, thicker, and his bollocks hung lower. He spread his legs slightly, and Sherlock saw glistening liquid come from the mushroom shaped tip. He couldn't recall if his looked like that, and he had a nervous thought of lifting up his own kilt to compare. 

Instead, he looked into John's face. His eyes were nearly shut, his mouth was slightly open, and he was breathing quickly. What was causing him to act this way?

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock said, putting the plaid over John. John lifted his hips and wrapped it as best he could one handed. Sherlock leaned down, put his arms around John, pulling it around him and tying it. As John held onto him for balance, John's breath ghosted on his neck for just a moment. 

Sherlock shivered as he helped John sit back down. He laid John's kilt on the bush, spreading out all his clothing so they dried efficiently. He looked at the tartan pattern, considering for a moment how different his life was becoming based on the tartan he'd worn one day. 

"Sit with me, luaidh?"

Sherlock left the clothing to dry, then sat himself beside John. He felt a rushed need to explain himself, "I'm sorry I leered at you. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry-"

"Sherlock," John pulled on Sherlock's hand. They were at least comfortable with this gesture, "You may look at me, or touch me, whenever you would like to. Wherever. I will not touch you, or make you touch me, unless you explicitly ask me to do so."

"You didn't mind?"

"No. Could you not tell?"

Sherlock shook his head. John opened his arms, offering for Sherlock to cuddle closer. Sherlock put his head on his shoulder, but John winced away in pain. 

Sherlock moved so he had more leverage. Asking permission, he rolled his hands across his aching shoulder, pulling at the tense muscle. He didn't know much about human anatomy, but in his livestock studies, it seemed to be a strained re injury. As his hands and John's muscle warmed, he felt John roll the shoulder, stretching and pushing at his shoulder blade, increasing the range of motion. 

"Is that better?" On impulse, Sherlock kissed his shoulder. John turned. Their faces were close, their noses touching. 

Sherlock felt warm. He enjoyed being close to John. They'd never been this close before. Sherlock had never seen the amber flecks in his blue eyes, nor the light freckles across his nose and cheeks. 

Sherlock stuttered, "My mother always kissed my wounds when I got hurt." 

John laughed, putting his hand on Sherlock's face. His smile was dazzling. 

"May I kiss you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, "But I'm not hurt anywhere?"

John laughed at him, pulling him closer in his arms, "Is this alright? If I kiss you sometimes when you're not hurt?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. He was expecting to be kissed, but instead, John just sat close to him. Sherlock looked down at the scraps of grass and the sand. He wove his fingers through John's, resting them on top of his lap. He marveled at the paleness of his skin and the golden hues of John's. 

"I hardly know you," Sherlock said quietly, rolling his palm over John's and tracing the veins in his hand and arms, "I feel comfortable with you, I'm not afraid of you, I enjoy your company thus far, but I don't know you."

John hooked his chin over Sherlock's shoulder, pulling his front nearly flush against Sherlock's back. Sherlock thought he felt warmer than he naturally should. John's voice and breath were right in Sherlock's ear as he spoke. 

"I was engaged to be married once," John began, "Her name was Mary. We had a common witnessed wedding. She was with child. I thought I loved her," John's voice cracked with emotion and Sherlock squeezed his fingers, "She lost her mind. She had delusions that everyone was ready to hurt her. She stopped eating. We lost the baby. She finally…"

He paused from talking, putting his lips down on Sherlock's shoulder, "I've been lonely. And incredibly alone. It's just been me and the land and my horses for five years now. I am not sure what I can offer you, Sherlock. Or what I can tell you about myself. But I would like to get to know you. I feel comfortable with you, too."

Sherlock turned back so he faced John. Before he lost his nerve, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's. It wasn't unpleasant, but he didn't understand what the fuss was about. He heard John make a sound similar to a moan and a deep breath. Sherlock tried again, pecking at his lips, and John responded by opening his mouth, wetting both their lips. He was hoping with practice that he would discover why his cousins and brother would spend hours kissing people, because there had to be more to it than this. 

John pulled back, his hand now in the nape of Sherlock's neck, rolled in his curls, "You are so very lovely. I am so lucky. I don't know how I got to be so lucky," John kissed him again. Sherlock thought it was pleasant, and nice, but not something he'd do for hours. After a few minutes John pulled back, breathing heavily. 

"We need to go back. They'll think I've kidnapped you," John breathed, his lips ghosting over Sherlock's as he spoke. 

Sherlock laughed, "They will already think the worst. We look as if we've rolled around on the ground and you're half dressed."

John gave Sherlock a smile, "We should ride back home on the horses completely naked. That will give them something to discuss!"

Sherlock rolled away from John, laughing, nearly rolling himself into the creek water from laughing too hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soilleir = Brilliant. Starry. (For author [ distantstarlight ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight) ). 
> 
> laoch = warrior 
> 
> [ A cliff notes Scottish wedding traditions and history ](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marriage_in_Scotland)
> 
> [ Gilfaethwy Celitic God of mischief - artistic license taken ](http://english12trial.wikispaces.com/Celtic+Trickster+Gods)


	10. Chapter 10

After he had stopped laughing, Sherlock laid back on the grass rather than listening to John's pleas to leave. He had an itch in his chest to keep talking with John, alone. 

"Did you want to be matched with a new wife? How did you come to be matched with me?"

John turned and laid beside Sherlock, wincing a bit as he turned. 

"I had been alone. Last fall, I'd had to run the foal births by myself. I could use the help, if my partner was so inclined, as well as someone to be with. I'd seen you, at a distance, when I'd been out riding and surveying the edge of my property. You were conducting an experiment with your brother on grass fire causes and prevention," John tickled Sherlock's ear in affection, "You'd had piles of rocks and pre-burned grass. You don't remember me, but I stopped and asked questions. You spoke so fast, and your mind moved from one topic to another, you were fascinating. My head clans woman made the match with your mother. I could give you security and help your family. You could give me joy. Become my family." 

Sherlock put his hand on John's cheek. Sherlock's fingers rubbed the red-tinted beard that covered his cheeks and jaw, "I remember you. You looked so skinny then, and sickly. You were clean-shaven then. You look so much better now."

John looked at Sherlock for a moment, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock responded, "Sorry, I just mean you look really good now. From what I remember. From before."

Sherlock felt that he'd talked himself into a corner and he couldn't get himself out of it. He waited for John to feel insulted and march off, but instead he started laughing. 

"I was quite sad during that season. I didn't have anything to look forward to. Everything was gray. The same every day."

Sherlock moved his fingers. He traced John's cheek, his jawline, underneath his eyes. He felt his eyelashes flutter. Sherlock danced his fingers across John's collarbone, feeling his steady pulse. 

"Do you really think I'll be good for you? That I'll make your life better?" Sherlock asked, moving his fingers over John's pectorals. He felt John shiver. 

"You've already made it better, leannan. We are lying near a stream, in the warm afternoon sun, just talking. I can imagine nights, in my feather bed, being side by side and discussing the day's events. Even if we don't touch further than what we have, I will be happy. You've already made me feel as if my nights will not be just filled with infinite loneliness." 

Sherlock felt affection, and warmth, for John Watson. He couldn't help moving over and kissing John's lips again. He missed his target, and his lips connected with a tickle of John's beard at the edge of his lips. Sherlock giggled. 

"You're itchy."

"Should I shave for the handfasting?" John asked, scratching at his beard with the curved knuckles of his hand. 

"No, no," Sherlock shook his head, "Everyone in my clan shaves. It's just different. But I do like it. I think I do."

John pulled his fingers through Sherlock's curls, looking into his eyes, "Will you be happy with me? Or at least content with me? I cannot bind you to me unless I feel I'd at least make you somewhat happy. You're so beautiful. And so very young. You could have anyone. Are you sure?"

Sherlock shivered. The sun was beginning to set. 

"I'm positive. I've told you before I was amicable to the match, but I'm even more sure now. I was frightened so much of who I'd be matched with. I'd been dreading it since I became of age last year," Sherlock rolled closer to John for warmth, "I don't know that I feel the way about you that my brother feels about his husband, as they couldn't keep their hands off each other from the start. If you are content knowing that I believe you're my equal, and I care for you and express that I find you beautiful in my own way, and we can be together in quiet, and loud, and work aside one another, then we shall have a successful partnership."

John pressed in close to Sherlock, "Please, may I kiss you? Please?"

Sherlock caught a tremble in John's voice and his eyes were moist. Before he could nod his agreement, Sherlock felt John's arms pull him close so they were touching torso to knee. John kissed desperately, squeezing Sherlock close to him, his tongue teasing against Sherlock's upper lip. The younger man was trying to catalogue the sensation of the wet, warmth with the soft, dry curls of John's beard, but he'd quickly become overwhelmed. Sherlock's legs were moving of their own volition, pulsing and squeezing together. He didn't know what he wanted, but his stomach ached. 

An image came to mind of John, spread out before him, naked with his cock naked and dripping with clear liquid. He hadn't been so affected when he'd seen it, but with John's lips on his, and his hands on his body, and that in his mind, he felt dizzy as if he'd run across the large pasture. He wanted to rock, and rub, and grab, and he was unsure how to move to satisfy the burning ache that was traveling into his lower belly and thighs. 

"Sherlock, my beloved, breathe. Breathe my love," John pulled back, peppering Sherlock's neck with kisses. John continued to rub Sherlock's arms with solid, grounding touches, encouraging him to slow down. 

"John…John I don't understand why I feel…."

John sat up, pushing himself up to stand, making Sherlock whine from the lack of touch. He was mortified by the sound. 

"Sherlock, I'm not taking you to bed for the first time outside. It's nearly evening. Let's ride back for the celebration."

Sherlock allowed John to help him stand. They gathered clothing and re-dressed as neatly as they could. They rode quickly back to the farmhouse, stealing glances at each other as they rode along. 

Even though they did their very best to come back as dignified as they could, smoothing out wrinkled tartans and kilts and mussed hair, Sherlock felt that all John's kisses and touches were seared on his skin so his entire family would see them.


	11. Chapter 11

John had to ride a pace slower than Sherlock both due to his steed and the hitch in his shoulder. Sherlock's stallion was antsy and itching to run so Sherlock let him run out and then would trot him back to John's side. 

On one pass, Sherlock rounded behind John and forced his horse to a near crawl. They were riding northwest, and the sunlight was gliding over John's features. His back, his shoulders, his thighs were accentuated by sunlight. Dust that the horse kicked up floated around him, catching sunlight in a cloud. Sherlock surprised himself with the feeling of longing, of _want_ , that captivated him. His impulse was to ride up to John and grab him somehow, to touch him, even with the impracticality of both men being on horseback. Sherlock imagined John's shock if Sherlock were to reach out for him, initiate a kiss, or to ask for his touch, how would John respond to his young fiancé gaining a bit of bravery.

Sherlock clicked at Laoch, urging the stallion forward. John turned around, and smiled. Sherlock was working up the nerve to ride beside John and reach for him, when John spurred his horse forward. Infuriatingly, John had taken this as a challenge to race. Sherlock yelled for him to stop, but John and Soilleir only ran faster. Within minutes, they were within view of the homestead. A fire was blazing, twice as high as the house, and the men and women were dancing and singing around it. 

Soilleir was used to the family dynamics, loud noises and celebrations. Laoch, a stallion that had been living alone with a bachelor, was not. John was slowing down to approach the Holmes clan. As the family began hollering and yelling in joy for the men's return, Laoch began to spook. Sherlock was accustomed to horses, so he rubbed the horses neck and grounded the horse down with his thighs and pelvis. However, the horse was terrified and irrational. He reared up, tossing Sherlock. Sherlock saw the back of the horse's head, then in a flash saw the stallion's belly and the bonfire and John in the distance upside down. 

Sherlock awoke, unsure if it was minutes, or hours, later. The smell of smoke was stronger, but he wasn't warm. His head vibrated and his leg ached. He looked around, but his vision was blurry. All he saw was figures moving around, which made him dizzy. He closed his eyes. He felt light touches on his arms and legs, and his head was cradled in someone's lap. He turned his head and felt the rough fabric of a plaid wrapped around him and fingers touching his scalp in patterned light presses. His mouth was dry as he tried to speak. 

"John?"

"I'm here, rùnach."

John was behind him, then, holding his head in his lap. Sherlock tried to sit up so he could properly fit his whole body on John's lap, crawling up to gain leverage with his feet. His limbs weren't responding. He felt the grass on his toes and fingers, but he felt tired. He heard Tavis' voice. 

"Whoa there, 'Lock. You took a jumping fall off a big horse. You need to lay down. You can't get up yet."

Sherlock was angry. He opened his eyes. Tavis was standing on his left. Behind him was Norris, Gavin and Price.

"Always you four," Sherlock growled, trying again to crawl up into John's lap. Sherlock felt John's legs move and his arms open. 

" 'Lock, ssshhh, you're ok," Tavis started again, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock tried to bat it away, missing, flailing his hand in the air. 

"I'm cold!" Sherlock snapped, opening his eyes. His vision was swimming with duplicates of his cousins. He pointed at Gavin, "This is your fault!" Gavin's face blanched, "Sherlock, the horse just spooked. It was no one's fault."

Tavis came around so his face was right in front of Sherlock's, " 'Lock, stop. You're not yourself."

Tears pricked at Sherlock's eyes. He couldn't feel or hear John. He wasn't sure where he was. There wasn't any fingers in his hair, "Did John leave me? Where is John?" 

Mycroft moved to to him, kneeling at Sherlock's other side. He moved so quickly Sherlock felt another wave of dizziness hit him. Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's face, like he did when they were children, "He just went to get you a blanket. He will be right back. Then we will take you and let you rest in our house. The room is bigger and the bed is on a stand. Tavis and I can look after you and tend to your injuries--"

Sherlock pushed Mycroft and Tavis away, putting the heels of his hands in his eyes, "Does John not love me?"

Mycroft pushed back into Sherlock, wrapping him into a large hug, "Sherlock, why are you worried about John? What is wrong?"

Sherlock shook and dissolved into silent sobs. Tavis wrapped his arms around him. 

"Why won't John take care of me?" Sherlock tried to move forward, and he felt nauseous. He bent forward, his forehead on the ground, "I don't want Tavis. Or Mycroft."

" 'Lock, you're working yourself up, breathe," Tavis tried to get Sherlock to sit back, but he rolled on his side, laying himself on the ground. He didn't open his eyes, as it made the dizziness worse. An ache grew, pounding his head right behind his eyes.

"Where is he? He's better than I thought he would be. He's beautiful. I hurt. Please," Sherlock's head throbbed with every word he spoke. Even though it sent a shock through his teeth with every syllable, he needed them to understand. He was terrified that John was being taken away from him, "I know I didn't want a husband, but I want John."

Sherlock felt another pair of arms pull him back into a tight embrace. 

_John. Finally._

He crawled into John's lap, scrambling, dizzy, wrapping his arms around his neck and tucking his legs into John's stomach. 

"Careful," John laughed, wrapping the extra plaid around Sherlock's back, "What's all this, now?"

Sherlock spoke at a breakneck pace, "You're warm. You make me feel warm. Why don't you want to take care of me? They want to take me away from you. I don't want to be away from you-"

John ran his fingers under Sherlock's eyes, cradling his entire face in his palms, "My rùnach. My Sherlock. You're upset over something that no one here will let happen. We belong to each other. If you want me near you, that's where I will be."

Sherlock was dizzy and could hardly keep his eyes open. He crawled as close to John as he could, rubbing his fingers against the soft hair of his beard. Before oblivion took him, he kissed John, missing his target. He smacked his lips on the side of John's mouth, sighing out loud enough for his cousins and brother to hear, "Please, let John. Let him. Let him lay with me in my bed. My beautiful grian."

Sherlock slipped into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grian = sun


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ This chapter is an homage to Breakable by Miss Davis ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520)

Sherlock turned, legs constricted. He was incredibly warm. He pushed his arms to lift himself, but he was trapped. Sherlock thrashed himself back and forth, opening his eyes. 

This wasn't his room. The sunlight was streaming in from the northeast in too sharp of an angle. He was on a bed, but the bed was softer and larger than his, and it was raised off the floor on a frame. His bed was just a small palette with a straw mattress on the floor. As he rolled in the large bed, he was stopped by a pile of soft comforters and pillows. It smelled of lavender and larch. 

He was in Mycroft's room. 

He sat up quickly and was caught with a wave of dizziness, and a pounding behind his eyes, that forced him to lay back down. 

He was alone in the room, but he heard talking from somewhere else in the house. It was snippets of conversation, arguments and some yelling. He wanted them all to stop, to be quiet for a moment. He cried out. 

His head pounded. He moved forward, putting his head in his hands. Why was he here? Where was everyone? Why did his head hurt?

His memories rushed back, but in no particular order. He recalled Laoch, his brother and Gregory Lestrade's wedding, being alone with an old man, his cousins. He recalled the bonfire, the horse ride, the fall. Bits and pieces of hours, or days, lying in bed came back to him. 

He was still alone in the room. He could hear voices somewhere else. He cried out a second time. Tavis rushed in the room, sitting himself on the bed beside him, and began to stroke his hair. Mycroft and his husband, Gregory came to stand on the other side. His mother and father followed last into the room and stood at the end of the bed. They all looked as if they'd been crying. Weeping. 

He could hardly get words to form. His tongue was heavy, his mouth full of sand. 

"Where is John? Where is my betrothed?"

His mother Victoria explained, "You've been out for two days. Moving and thrashing, talking in circles. You were fading out quickly. Your breathing was getting weaker. John and his clansmen are gone working on a blackhouse plot, set on flat ground, near our house, in case you were invalided. We were afraid we would be slowly watching you waste away…." Victoria Holmes dabbed at her eyes with her plaid. Stuart Holmes reached out and patted her hand.

Mycroft looked at his mother with soft eyes. He sat down beside Sherlock, "John needed something to keep him busy. For twelve hours you've only moaned and we could barely get water into you. Over two days we weren't sure you'd fully wake up. He is with his clan bringing materials so he can build a house to care for you."

Sherlock held on to his brother's arm as the room had begun to spin. He laid down on his front, his face pressed against the comforter. His forehead grounded against the mattress seemed to help the worst of the dizziness. Invalid? Wasting away? He was moving. His head felt hollowed by radiating pain, and he preferred his eyes closed, but he had to get up. He had to find John. 

Sherlock felt arms pulling him to sit back on the bed. He wasn't sure if it was Mycroft or Tavis. 

"I'm fine! I need to see my betrothed," Sherlock grabbed at the headboard to push himself to standing. He was trembling violently and couldn't step forward. 

Tavis snapped at him, "Cum do theanga ablaich gun fheum!" Sherlock sat back down on the bed, "You were near _death_ this morning. Your poor fiancé is running himself sick caring for you and gathering his family and their clan healers in case you fell more ill. This is all while building your blackhouse. You will honor him by sitting still and _behaving yourself._ "

Sherlock allowed Tavis to lean him back into the pillows. William was called, and he brought compresses and medicines for pain. They helped Sherlock stand to change his clothing and the bedsheets. Each wave of exertion took three times as long as normal, but the pain medicine eased his discomfort. William was serving Sherlock sips of broth as the evening light filled the room. 

Sherlock's entire family turned as the front door slammed. John's booming voice echoed. He was talking to his clansmen, "We will make the entry ways extra large, just in case. And the rooms will be large, he will have plenty of space. Lady Violet, how did Sherlock fare today?"

John stopped speaking when he reached the entryway to the bedroom and saw his betrothed sitting up. Discreetly, William and the rest of the family stepped out of the room. Sherlock's eyes were still unfocused, but he could see the slump in John's shoulders and the sweat that had been pouring off of him. There were two figures near him that moved in and out of focus, two other men that were wearing the Watson tartan. 

"Oh, Sherlock," John sobbed, falling to his knees on the ground, resting his head on Sherlock's lap, "You're awake!"

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's golden hair. Sherlock had to bite his lip again with another bout of sharp pain and dizziness. He felt John's arms around his waist, his head in his lap, his shaking shoulders as he wept. 

"Shhhhh," Sherlock hushed, even this sound too loud in his mind, "My John. What have you been doing? You are covered in dirt and sweat. You look exhausted."

John turned his head and looked up at Sherlock, "Just waiting. I was so sick with worry. I worked on our home. I needed something to preoccupy my mind, rather then watch you in unconscious and fitful sleep."

"John," Sherlock said in wonder, "You thought I would waste away? Be invalided?"

John's clansmen slipped out of the room and shut the door. John crawled up into the bed and gently laid beside Sherlock, "My uncle fell off a horse like that. He was ill a few days and was an invalid for years. I was preparing myself."

Sherlock watched John drift in and out of focus as he washed his hands and face and neck from the water basin. He could see his body was shaking. 

"Are you cold?" Sherlock tried to pull up the blanket to coax John to join him, but his limbs felt heavy. He was sleepy again, even though it seemed he'd been sleeping for nearly three days. 

"No, I just...I think I'm shaking because I'm finally not so scared," John pulled up close to Sherlock, kissing him, tracing one of Sherlock's cheekbone's with a fingertip, "I was afraid I'd never see your beautiful eyes again." 

Sherlock closed his eyes as another wave of nausea and dizziness hit him. He pushed his forehead up against John's, "I'm so sorry, John, I don't know where I went these past few days."

"I'm not leaving your side," John whispered, kissing Sherlock gently. He laid facing Sherlock, but not too close, "I will wake you every few hours just to assure myself you're still with me."

"If you lay here with me, John, we are as good as considered married. Even without the ceremony. Even without consummation," Sherlock reached out and traced his face, touching John's cheek, his lips, his eyebrow, "are you sure you want to spend the night in bed with me?"

"I love you, my darling Sherlock, and I am not leaving your side," John kissed him, pulling him over onto his shoulder. Gently, he ran his fingers over Sherlock's hair and back, "I am here. I waited years for you, and I was terrified I lost you. Goodnight, luaidh."

When John kissed Sherlock goodnight, Sherlock's stomach swooped, even more than when he'd been pitched from a horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Building a blackhouse ](http://naturalhomes.org/blackhouse.htm)
> 
> Cum do theanga ablaich gun fheum = shut up you idiot


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock had been roused, every few hours, just as John had promised. John had kissed him gently and stroked his long, dark curls each time. Candles kept a soft glow of light in the room so John could see Sherlock's eyes and check his breathing.

Near dawn break, Sherlock startled awake, pitching himself back away on the bed's edge. As John reached for him, he pulled back further, grabbing the blankets to keep from rolling off the bed completely.

John sat up and gave Sherlock space. He spoke lowly, but with sharp diction.

"Sherlock," John said. He sat still, watching the fading candlelight dance across Sherlock's sharp cheekbones, his jaw, his clavicle. He saw his heartbeat, a panicked staccato, thrumming against his throat.

"Sherlock," he said again, opening his hands and arms wide in a gesture of peace, "Do you know me?"

Sherlock pulled back, as a spring, his legs pulled up in preparation leap off the bed, "How do _you_ know my nickname?"

John had no idea _Sherlock_ was a nickname. It was poor timing for further questioning. John gingerly removed the blankets from his legs and sat at the other end of the bed. He demonstrated he had no hidden weaponry on his lower body.

John watched him and calculated what to say. Though John had him bested by weight, he had no doubt Sherlock would be a viscous opponent if he though John was an enemy.

"What's the last thing you remember?" John asked, keeping his posture and gestures relaxed.

Sherlock pursed his lips and stared at John for a few moments. As the silence became uncomfortable, he growled, "I certainly don't recall welcoming a man into my bed," Sherlock rubbed at his temple, his eyes fixed on John, "I hurt all over. My ribs. My arms. My head absolutely aches."

John waited for Sherlock to continue. He observed his eyes flick back and forth, reading him as a stranger.

John felt the push before he saw it. One moment he was looking at his liath-uaine eyes, the next, he was pinned beneath Sherlock, a long forearm grinding down against his throat, a sharp knee threatening his groin.

"Did you harm me, sir?" Sherlock spat. John didn't struggle. He pushed back into the mattress. He met Sherlock's eyes and took small, gulping breaths. He did not push him off. He didn't squirm a fraction.

"Sherlock," He huffed as loud as he could with limited breath, "I would never harm you. _Ever_."

Sherlock pushed harder.

"How can I trust you? I don't _know_ you?"

John sucked in a breath from his nose, "You took me to the stream. Your secret thinking place."

Sherlock sat up a bit. John gasped at more air and continued, "We went there on horses. We were riding back when you got hurt. You were thrown off your horse."

Sherlock pushed himself down again so he was nose to nose with John, "Why would I take you to my secret spot by the stream? I don't have friends."

John pushed up, nearly kissing him, "Tha gaol agam ort. You are my betrothed. We are to be married."

Sherlock shook his head. John gestured over to a corner with a pile of clothing, "Look at the tartan pattern. There is my Watson tartan lying on the clothing rack beside yours. In that dresser, if you open it, you'll find more of your family's tartan and the Lestrade tartan. The Lestrade clan aligned with yours when Gregory Lestrade married your brother. The rumor that came to my great uncle is that it was a love match." Sherlock raised up a bit, blinking. He didn't speak.

John felt the aches in his shoulder turn to searing pain. "Okay, getting a bit scary now. You're going to have to let me up now."

"John!" Sherlock cried. His betrothed's voice, his scent, the memories finally registering, "Yes, I took you to my secret place. With your horses. And then-"

Sherlock pushed John into the mattress, but now using his hips for leverage and caging John's head in with his forearms. He stroked at John's hair with his hands, "I forgot who you were for a moment. I'm sorry."

Still laying down below Sherlock, John craned his neck up to nip at Sherlock's lips. He teased him as his face flushed, "So, I don't know your true, full name." John kissed Sherlock, rubbing his lips against his as he spoke, "Mine is John Hamish Watson," he said, "What is your full name?"

"William Stuart Holmes," Sherlock answered, stroking the reddish, soft hairs on John's jaw. He leaned in, nuzzling the hairs on his chin.

"Where did Sherlock come from?" John ran his fingers up and down Sherlock's ribs. He felt Sherlock relax, settle down on top of him. John could feel Sherlock's manhood up against his thigh.

"Sherlock was a nickname. I've always loved my hair long. To my shoulders, or longer, and my cousins called me 'sure of locks' or some such nonsense. It stuck, and was shortened to _Sherlock_. Much more distinctive than William."

John laughed. Sherlock put his hand on John's mouth to still him, "Why is that so funny?"

John looked at Sherlock, not answering, looking him over from his eyes, to his chest, his ears, and then he finally brought Sherlock's left hand to his mouth. He kissed Sherlock's knuckles sweetly, reverently, as he told him, "You are my delight. You make me laugh at how you see the world. I am not laughing at you. I am laughing because you wanted to be different than all the thousands of other Scotsmen named William. You made your own name."

Sherlock kissed John soundly. He nipped at his lips, rubbing his skin against John's beard.

"You've got a bit of stubble there yourself, luaidh, from being asleep for 3 days," John whispered, kissing against Sherlock's jawline, "You look wild."

Sherlock leaned back to look at John, "Do you like me wild?"

John opened his legs wider, then hooked his ankles around Sherlock's calves.

"I like you in my bed, Sherlock, my prìseil. Tell me. Tell me you like me in your bed. You are an innocent. I want to know you want me. Let me."

Sherlock answered simply, "Yes," and drove his elbows into the bedding, breathing heavily, thrusting his pelvis into John's.

"Sherlock, please, nothing between us, nothing. Beauty, let me see you." Daylight was beginning to fill the room. Sherlock's hands shook as he pulled the clothes up over his head, leaning back on John's thighs. He rolled over, allowing John to strip, then John hooked his legs around again and rolled them a rotation so John was on top.

John put his forehead on Sherlock's and breathed. He cradled his head with his forearm, stroking his hair back onto the bedsheets. He looked at him, feeling his wetness and the heat of his groin, and his anxiety in the small undulations of the younger man's hips.

"You may take me," Sherlock said, "I am yours."

John paused. He lifted his pelvis just a bit so the tips of their cocks were barely touching. John shook his head, fitting kisses across Sherlock's cheeks, chin and forehead, "Do you not know that I am wholly yours? You make me feel as if I am the virgin on their wedding night. You blast out my thoughts like a spring storm. You've already taken me. I am yours to touch. Touch me, as much or as little as you like. I will only touch you if you take my hands and guide them. I want to know for sure you are welcoming it. In thought and body."

John rolled off of him. They lie naked, on their sides, facing each other. The light began to stream in brighter, diffused by the rough blown glass.

"Touch me," Sherlock asked.

John shook his head, reaching out his hand, "Show me where you want me to touch you. Use my hand and show me on _your_ body. Use my hand to show me."

Sherlock wrapped his long fingers all the way around John's wrist, pulling his hand slowly towards his body. Sherlock hesitated a moment, letting John's relaxed fingers drift over his belly. He turned, instead he brought his hand to his nipples. Sherlock was fascinated that he would even crave John's touch there. Looking down, he caught John's cock had jumped in response. He continued to grow, the pink, dusky head pulling out from the foreskin. 

Sherlock opened John's palm, letting his fingertips run over his raised nipples, his pectorals, his upper arms. He kept his own hands over John's forearms, following the pattern, looking down at his body's response. He was hard, aching, his legs and hips moving and seeking out release. Sherlock almost broke contact with John to touch himself but thought better of it. He moved John's right hand down to touch him, but John shook his head.

"Please, Sherlock, let me use my dominate hand. Let me touch us both, together? You are fire and you are burning me alive."

Sherlock released John's hand. John used his right arm to draw them close, then his left palm he licked. Sherlock felt John's cock against his own and he felt the waves of orgasm already beginning.

"Oh, my sweet virgin. Sherlock, let me. I will teach you," John wrapped his hand around both their lengths. Sherlock moaned, crying, the slick, soft heat surrounding him. John pulled him tighter, their cocks trapped in between their hipbones and John's pumping fist, "I will put my mouth on you next time. I will draw your seed out of you and swallow it. I'll show you I love you by kissing and tasting every inch of you. I'll use that oil on you, open up your most intimate place, slowly, so gentle. When you're begging, only when you're ready, we will make love. I will be connected to you, inside of you, joined as husbands."

Sherlock grabbed John's arse and forced him to push into him with a snap. Sherlock felt a pull in his belly and his mouth went dry. He shook, his orgasm overwhelming him to tears. John held him, stroking him gently, bringing himself to release moments later. Sherlock continued to buck himself into John's fist, even when he was over sensitive, not wanting the feeling to ever end.

John slowed, finally pulling away, wiping himself and Sherlock off with the bed linens. The sun brightened the room, and as Sherlock crawled on top of John, the light reflected behind him, casting his curls in a glow. He kissed John sleepily, comparing the feel of his mouth to the feel of the skin of his chin or behind his ear. John tossed a sheet over both of them as he heard steps approach the door.

William, plaids for drying over his arms, came in with hot water and a tray full of bathing soaps and herbs. Sherlock, mid- kiss, flushed a brilliant shade of red, looked at William over his shoulder. John pulled the comforters over them and they hid underneath, giggling like children.

William shook their feet under the covers, "Though, Lord John Watson, I cannot tell you what to do, I am still in charge of Master Sherlock for at least eleven more days. The water will only stay hot for a while. Your mother commands you bathe. We will then bless you for healing."

Sherlock felt goose pimples as John lowered the quilt to peek at William, "Leave it please, I will bathe him," When William hesitated, John responded, "In all eyes we are betrothed and as good as married. Let me care for him this way."

William nodded, leaving crushed lavender, soap, drying and cleaning plaids, and a kettle of water by the fire. Both men had new clothing laid out for them on a chair.

With most of the dizziness gone, Sherlock appreciated the beauty of the room, and the difference between being the Master of one's own home versus the youngest brother in one. Rather than sleeping on an old bed on the floor, he hoped his master room with John would be open and beautiful like this, with a fireplace, room for a tub, window, snap rods for plaids to hang when pressed and room for books and his experiments. No longer would all his items be tucked here and there in barn corners or in stone hiding places. He would be in charge of his own home, and his own help.

John held onto him, easing him gently to the edge of the bed. Already bare, he kept him covered with the quilt as long as possible.

"John," Sherlock whispered. His body was so scrawny and tall. He pulled way from John, covering himself up from his gaze.

"Sherlock," John breathed back, stepping into the V of his legs, his chest pressed up against Sherlock's, "You are beautiful. Do you doubt how my body responds to you? Let me bathe you, my beauty. Let me care for you." He kissed Sherlock deeply, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock shivered, running his fingers down John's hip bones. When John moved his arms underneath Sherlock's to lift him up and pull him into a close hug, Sherlock swayed.

"Let's get you into the tub, dearest," John whispered into Sherlock's ear, guiding him into the tub. As John lowered him into the warm water he winced, realizing the bruises on his chest and back from his fall.

"Oh, Sherlock," John moaned, running water over his shoulders. He took some lavender, crushing it into the water. He took a cut plaid, dipping it into the water, swirling it into the lavender water. "How is the temperature?" John could see the goose pimples on Sherlock's back and arms, so he went to the hearth and grabbed the kettle of warming water. As he approached the metal tub, Sherlock said something that John couldn't quite understand.

"What was that?" John asked, tenderly brushing Sherlock's curls out of his eyes.

"Please, will you get in with me? I am so cold," Sherlock gave him a smile, "You are already stripped."

John sighed, feigning being put out. He laid the kettle on the floor, waiting to judge the water level after he got in. He slotted himself behind Sherlock, tucking him in, pulling him close. Sherlock, even with his height, fit perfectly between his thighs and rested his head on John's shoulder. John put in more hot water from the kettle.

"Hmmm, my luachmhor. Let me wash off all the dust and dirt from the past days. Let me remove the dust from your hair, prìseil."

John cupped water and washed Sherlock's hair, letting the soap and herb's wash over his entire body. After he was clean, John went back to Sherlock's hair, gently massaging his scalp with alternating fingernail scratches and presses. Sherlock felt his muscles relax and his eyes begin to close. John gently tickled his fingers over his ribs, stirring him awake. A bit of water splashed outside the tub onto the floor.

When Sherlock was satisfactorily clean, John scrubbed himself quickly. John left the tub first, wrapping a plaid around himself, then grabbed one to wrap around Sherlock. John kept his arms around Sherlock the entire time as he lead him to the bed. Sherlock felt warm, and sleepy, but John wouldn't let John lay back onto the comforters.

"You're finally clean. I can see your dubh falt again. These blankets need to be washed before you sleep in them again."

Sherlock smiled, half asleep, as he reached out for John's plaid tied around his waist, "Before _we_ sleep in them again."

John laughed, "Luaidh, I am building a house for you. We will be there together."

"You cannot build it in a little more than a week," Sherlock huffed, wrapping his fingers around the tie in John's plaid, "I cannot be without you every night until we finally have a house of our own." John moved close to Sherlock, "You won't, my beauty-" he exhaled sharply as Sherlock tugged on his plaid, dropping it to the floor, leaving him completely naked. Sherlock grinned at him, looking at his body from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. John cocked his eyebrow, even standing with his spine straight while under inspection.

As John moved his hand to cup around the back of Sherlock's neck, there was a quick knock and the door opened. William stood in the entryway, with Sherlock's parents behind him. They were chattering over the blessing and the blackhouse work.

Louder than he had ever heard him speak, Sherlock shouted "For god's sake shut up and get out. We will let you know when we are ready."

William, red faced, looked John up and down. He pursed his lips, and shut the door with a small snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luachmhor = (adj.) Of high value or worth. Precious. 
> 
> prìseil = (adj.) Intensifier; a darling. Of high value. 
> 
> dubh falt = black head of hair 
> 
> Tha gaol agam ort = I love you
> 
> liath-uaine = grey-green


	14. Chapter 14

John and Sherlock exited the bedroom, dressed and clean. Sherlock felt pride, joy and wonder that the man at his side was his betrothed. He had cared for him, comforted him, dressed him and braided his hair into oiled and decorated braids. William had insisted that he should be the one to braid Sherlock's hair, as his helpmate since childhood, but John was resolute that he wanted to learn. John assured William that he would have a high station in their new household but that there were some tasks pertaining to Sherlock's care that he would be taking over as his husband. 

Sherlock had blushed as John fumbled through his locks, hissing as John's thick fingers caught on tangles. He over-oiled Sherlock's hair, causing it to drip thickly into his eyes and onto his shoulders. William had huffed with impatience, "You're going to drown him in it!" But he acquiesced to John's wishes, standing back and guiding him in the placement of all the decorative beads, the interspacing of braids, and curling his locks by using his fingers.

As they exited the room they smelled the fire roaring and heard the family talking in the large common room. John took Sherlock's arm, wrapping his hand around his bicep and tucking him in close by his side. Sherlock stumbled as his vision swam. He was suddenly thirsty and dizzy with hunger. 

"Come, luaidh, let's get you some food and drink. It's been a long few days," John whispered in his ear, pulling away to kiss him on his cheek. Sherlock turned and observed John's face. John Hamish Watson had deep circles under his eyes and worry lines crinkling his brow. John was exhausted from working on their new home, as the physical work is what had kept John's mind off Sherlock's condition after the fall.

Only a little unsteady, Sherlock unwound his arm from John's. He put his palms on either side of his beloved's face, stroking his beard with his thumbs. He leaned in, kissing deeply, moving his mouth gently against his betrothed's. He swayed, John catching him and leading him to a couch in the common room. 

John sat beside him, calling to William for water and honeyed bread. John tried to stand to bring Sherlock a wet plaid, but Sherlock grasped at his tartan, pulling him back to sit beside him. John enveloped him as Sherlock shifted, fitting his ear to listen to John's heartbeat. 

"You've cared for me so," Sherlock began, his voice quivering, "You have been so kind, gentle and loving. My heart aches for you, luachmhor John. I do not wish to be separated from you."

Sherlock shivered. After William provided John water and honeyed bread, William banked the fire. John settled them into the cushions, Sherlock resting on his chest. John wrapped his plaid around him as a cover. 

"Here, darling, you must eat, just a bit," John encouraged, rubbing Sherlock's back as he offered him a small piece of bread with the other hand, "you have to earn your strength back."

Sherlock nodded, fascinated by the way John's fingers dipped the bread into the syrup, flicking it up with his wrist. He placed a piece of bread on Sherlock's tongue. He ate it hungrily, quickly, licking the last bit of honey from John's fingers. Sherlock felt John shiver beneath him. 

"I mean it. Every word. I can't wait," Sherlock mouthed into John's neck, pulling him closer for body heat, "I will be honored to be your husband. Tha gaol agam ort."

John looked down at him, folded up into a compact space on the couch, tucked into his arms. He ran his fingers down Sherlock's braids and through his curls. John looked up when he felt someone pressing on the backrest of the couch. 

"Are you alright, brother?" Mycroft asked. He too had circles under his eyes. He rolled his shoulder to crack the joints. He and his husband had been sleeping on two cots in Sherlock's room. 

"Better," Sherlock replied, opening one eye as he peeked out from under the cocoon of John's tartan, "I was frightened this morning when I'd forgotten who John was. Why we were in bed together."

"Oh?" Mycroft questioned, giving John a stare.

John cleared his throat, "It's common after hitting one's head to have some memory lapse. You can be assured your brother can defend himself quite readily when needed."

Mycroft laughed and Sherlock smiled, "My brother has always been good at defending himself. If someone starts a fight he'll finish it." 

Mycroft asked after John's house design. Sherlock felt himself drift back to sleep as John was explaining how his clansmen were building the house up with rocks and mud with the plan of a sloped moss roof. Sherlock loved the sound of John's voice. Sherlock squeezed John when his voice cracked as he explained how he had laid out the plan to be open and wide in case Sherlock was ill and had to be carried from room to room. 

He drifted to sleep imagining what it would be like to have John carry him over the threshold of his own house. 

Sherlock's parents came over to Sherlock, shaking him gently awake. He blinked, realizing he'd fallen asleep on the couch. He was now lying on it, alone, blankets piled around him. He was quite warm. 

"Yes?" Sherlock looked up into his mother's eyes. They were soft with concern. 

"John and his clansmen are working double time on your home. Would you like to see?"

Sherlock nodded, his parents both helping him gently raise up. They led him outside. His head ached slightly, but his shoulder and ribs were no longer stinging with pain. 

Down the path from his parents' large house, Sherlock saw the foundation of a new blackhouse rising from the ground. As his parents and he walked closer, he noticed a stone horse paddock was marked out, and an off site kitchen hut. Sherlock wrinkled his brows.

"He's building me a full kitchen hut? Does he expect me to cook and prep food all the time?" Sherlock grumbled, puffing back his fringe with an indignant breath. 

His father laughed, "I'll let John explain that part himself."

They rounded the north side and saw more than a dozen men in old kilts, shirtless, gleaming with sweat. They pulled stones, piling them and placing them to minimize gaps in the walls. Cemented mud filled in any cracks. Sherlock caught John's eye. He was measuring out a room wall standing in the middle of the partially built foundation. He walked up to Sherlock, grinning brightly. He turned and gestured in the direction of the buildings, "What do you think?"

Sherlock tilted his head, "You expect me to cook?"

John moved closer, laughing, "No, we will have cooks. Where did you get that idea?"

Sherlock pulled away from his mother's grasp and pointed to the kitchen house, "You built a full kitchen house!"

John pulled Sherlock close, holding him around the shoulders, "Sherlock, that's laid out like a kitchen house but it's not. That is a separate place for all your experiments. A place to keep your ingredients and measuring tools so they don't get ruined by the rain. It's big enough for you and your brother to work side by side, if you like."

Sherlock blinked a few moments, unable to speak. Though his cousins loved him, they'd always teased him a bit for his experiments and his desire to watch and learn how things work. Mycroft was the only other person who understood his curiousity and thirst for knowledge, and he swore he would lose that ability to experiment as much once he and his brother were married. 

Sherlock remembered how John said he'd wanted to be matched with him. John was fascinated by Sherlock and Mycroft working on experiments and then asked his clan matchmaker for help. John loved the very traits and habits that made him feel strange and off-putting to others. 

"Sherlock?" John questioned tenderly, "Are you alright? It's getting a bit scary now. Can you answer me?"

Sherlock grabbed John around the neck and held him close, kissing him on the lips. He desperately tried to pour every bit of sentiment, every thank you, into that deep, pressing kiss. 

Sherlock didn't realize he had wrapped his arms all the way around him, nearly hitching his leg up all the way around John's calf, until he heard his father cough uncomfortably.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock watched with fascination as the Watson clansmen worked for days on end to secure their home. He remembered when, as a child, the men of his clan had worked round the clock to put up a _stàball_ to the specifications of his _seanmháthair._ Everyone in the clan worked in shifts, some eating and resting while others worked. The Watson clan set up building in the same way, all young men and women helping to build the marriage gift to the _fear nuadh-pòsda_ that was joining the Watson clan by marriage. 

Their house was small, but with two rooms. The main common room, with an opening for a fire pit, and a large bedroom. The roof would be made of grass and thatch, covered with a netting that was tied down with rock anchors. The triangular roof undercarriage of was constructed while another group gathered the thatch and wound the netting. 

Sherlock, his headache now just a dull pain behind his eyes, was sitting in a chair with a plaid draping over his head to provide shade. He sat weaving rope with his nimble fingers, listening to gossip from the clan of his _fear-bainnse._ He had always been a serious child, left alone with his work that had kept him busy. Sherlock found small talk tedious and difficult. His back ached, fingers swelled and sweat dripped from his brow onto his lap. As he finished the last braid on his section, a very drunk clansman leaned on Sherlock, nearly tipping him over. 

"Eye, ya pretty thing. Can't believe our Johnny laddie's marrying a sweet thing like you. Delicate, not what we expected at all for our Johnny, ded'we?"

Sherlock reminded himself that John had chosen him, and the man speaking to him was John's relation. He bit his tongue, his stomach rolling with the man's rancid breath. Sherlock focused on his next piece of rope to weave. 

The man didn't take invitation to stop talking. He chattered on. 

"We always knew're laddie Johnny was a soft'un for th'poor an' wea'r sex. Ne'er thou't 'ed go to th' ver' poor Holmes clan."

Sherlock stood up, throwing the thatch netting on the ground. He was bone tired, hot and aching in all his muscles. He hadn't seen much of John for days. He stood to his full height, railing against the drunk clansman in his booming baritone voice. 

"You're absolutely right. My family is poor. I am not good enough for John Watson. No one is. He's brave, and handsome, and kind. But you are a jealous man. Your clothes are threadbare and repaired repeatedly by your shaking hands. Shaking hands indicate you have unsuccessfully tried to withdraw from drinking mead several times. You're a distant cousin to the Watson clan, desperate to do anything to get in their good graces and into their favor. You hang around them as a whipped dog, hardly making yourself useful. Now, you use your words as a weapon to press me away. You are wasting your time with me. I know my worth. John Watson is certainly more wonderful than I deserve. And I know _your_ character. When it comes to Lord Watson, you are far more out of your depth."

Sherlock had even shocked himself. He turned, and all the clansmen had stopped working, jaws open, eyes wide. Hammers and tools stopped in mid-strike. The clansmen stared at Sherlock. John's dearest cousin, Lennox, moved towards Sherlock, opening his mouth to speak. The other clansmen started whispering and pointing. 

Sherlock had shamed John by publicly shaming an elder clan member. The rest of the clan would surely demand he leave, or worse, call John over to hear the story. 

Sherlock didn't give them a chance to do either one. 

He stormed away, running, to another favorite quiet spot of his. He was tired of people, of gossip and of trying to impress others. He ran until his head pounded and his lungs burned. He stopped when he reached a grove of trees. He sat down in the cool grass, pulling his knees up to his chest. He wept. John would hear about how awful he was and change his mind. Sherlock had known, like a countdown clock, that John would eventually find out what Sherlock really was like and change his mind. He tried to calm his breathing, to keep the tears at bay, but the more he thought of John the harder he wept. 

As the afternoon sun cooled, Sherlock heard a voice and someone walking through the soft grass. " 'Lock!" Tavis and Jaime took turns calling, coming up through the trees behind Sherlock. He didn't want to see them. He knew his face was red, blotchy and tear stained and his body was filthy from work and resting in the dirt. He imagined his cousins were looking for him so they could gently break his heart and explain his _fear-bainnse._ was so embarrassed he'd changed his mind. He sat, staring into the distance. 

" 'Lock!" Tavis admonished, sitting down beside Sherlock, pulling him close, "You're freezing! Your betrothed is beside himself. We need to get you back home."

Tavis attempted to put Sherlock's arm over his neck to pick him up. Sherlock dug in, keeping his body on the ground. 

"No. I won't go with you. John hates me now. I can't bear to hear him say it. I'll break into pieces if I have to listen to him tell me to my face he won't marry me now--"

Jaime knelt on Sherlock's other side, pulling his plaid back so he could look into his tear filled _liath-uaine_ eyes. He put his hands on Sherlock's shoulder, "Oh, my dear. Lennox threatened to horse whip that old fool for what he said about you and your family. John was near killing him and sent him away. John begged forgiveness from your parents and he sent search parties out for you."

Sherlock looked between Jaime and Tavis. Their eyes were open, not breaking eye contact. They appeared to Sherlock that they were telling the truth. 

With a shaking voice, Sherlock replied, "Someday he will hate me. I can be so mean and spiteful. I can't help saying what is on my mind. It's only a matter of time before he grows tired."

Tavis held Sherlock's hands between his, "John can't stop talking about how much he loves you. How sharp your mind is. You didn't see him those days you were completely asleep. He was heartbroken. Devastated. He knows you as well as he can in this short courtship. He won't cast you aside."

Sherlock looked away and turned to Jaime, "You all found me tiresome when we were children. You told me that no one would put up with me and my sharp tongue or my ridiculous habits. You know me better than anyone else and you can't stand me."

Tavis didn't respond but hauled Sherlock up by the scruff of his neck. Sherlock protested, claiming it pinched. Tavis began hauling him back to his house, berating him the entire way, "Sherlock, you are brilliant, but you can be an absolute fool. We were children. Children say hurtful things. You seem to forget all the times you called us idiots and you refused to play with us because what we did was too childish. Your dear John is in love with you, utterly besotted, and you've worried him sick long enough. You need to get all these notions out of your mind that you're not good enough for him."

Sherlock finally shook Tavis free, straightening out his plaid. Jaime laughed, "He's giving you a speech just like your Ma would when you would get into one of your sulks."

Sherlock pushed his long curls away from his eyes and flipped them back behind his shoulders, "I do not sulk."

Tavis laughed, "You most certainly do sulk. You fret and strop and get ridiculous ideas in that very smart head of yours."

Jaime led Sherlock around the back of the house, to his parents' room. Norris, Gavin, Price, the Wallace cousins, and Eric, the other Holmes cousin, were crowded in the small room, talking animatedly regarding the areas searched and where else to go. They were so involved, talking over one another so loudly, that Tavis had to whistle to get their attention. 

"Cousins! We found him. He was back behind the south path. He was afraid his beloved was angry with him for what was said to the old fool."

Gavin grabbed some water and a plaid rag, bringing it to Sherlock and gently cleaned his face, "Yer dear Johnny laddie loves you, 'Lock. He was fit t'be tied when he 'eard how that Watson clansman talked t'ye. The clansman has been removed. You've nothin' ta fear. Yer laddie loves ya mor' than all others." 

Sherlock sighed, letting Gavin wash his face. He assured them he was fine, that what he really needed was to be washed, some food and to sleep. Eric agreed to run and find William and Price went to find John. Tavis took Sherlock back to his room, where he'd returned to staying since he'd recovered after his fall. John had taken to saying good night to Sherlock and sleeping outside, working on pieces of their future home by torch light and lamps. 

Tavis grew impatient waiting for William so he boiled water and filled Sherlock's tub. He scrubbed his cousin from head to toe, pulling out fresh linens for him to wear and piling up his filthy older plaids outside the door. Sherlock was completely silent, ignoring Tavis' attempts at conversation. He felt stung as he remembered everything that had transpired during the day. When Sherlock was done with his bath and all dressed, his headache came back with a vengeance. He laid down on his bed, his arm over his eyes to block out the light. 

Tavis threw the bath water outside, then came back to check on Sherlock. He was already asleep, his long, damp hair fanned out underneath his head. Tavis covered him with a blanket, then exited the Holmes house into the front pasture. In the dusk light Tavis could barely see John Watson marching towards him. 

"Where is he?" John asked, his voice scratchy. He had been riding toward the east and had been calling for Sherlock most of the afternoon. 

"He's asleep, m'lord, lying in his bed," Tavis answered, catching John's arm when he tried to walk past him to the house, "Let him rest. May we talk, you and I? Besides his brother, I think I know him better than anyone on this earth. At least since his _seanmháthair_ passed."

John nodded, allowing Tavis to lead him into the Holmes main common room. A fire was going, but the two men were alone. They sat in chairs opposite one another. John bounced his leg up and down, waiting for Tavis to speak. 

"Sherlock is..." Tavis began, pausing to cough, "He's always been alone. He never let himself get close to anyone because he knew someday he'd be given in marriage to someone of means so the family line would continue. The Holmes clan took in we cousins that would've starved otherwise, which left them nearly destitute themselves. Sherlock knew how much his brother loves Gregory Leatrade, so he agreed to let Mycroft have his love match and Sherlock would have the match for money, the match in name only."

John looked at the fire. Tavis tapped his knee to get his attention, "Lord Watson, I tell you this to encourage you. My cousin hardly knows how to behave around you now that he knows he loves you. He's so afraid that at any moment you will see the real him and leave him. He's always been smart, spoken exactly what's on his mind, and kept to himself with experiments. He's made himself to think he's unlovable."

John looked at Tavis, "But I do love Sherlock. I love him so much."

Tavis smiled, "I know that. But he has a hard time believing it. He's worried you will leave him," Tavis placed his hand on John's shoulder, "I know you want your house done before you marry, but I think you should marry him as soon as you can. He's doing everything to keep busy while he waits for the day to arrive because he's afraid it won't actually come."

John nodded, his eyes bright with unshed tears, "Let's discuss it with his ma and da, shall we?"

Tavis smiled, "As you wish."


	16. Chapter 16

In the middle of the night, Sherlock opened his eyes as he felt the mattress dip. John sat next to him, placing a candle on the bedside table. Sherlock exhaled, shifting his long legs under the bed sheets. John laid on top of the covers, on his side, facing Sherlock. He put his hand under Sherlock's head, cradling it, using his other hand to stroke his hair. 

" _Luaidh._ My _prìseil._ Don't ever leave me, Sherlock. I will always defend you. I will defend your honor against kin or enemy. I will always choose you. Do you know that?"

Sherlock was lost in his blue eyes. He stared, letting his head fall back into John's hand, "I've never even had friends," he replied, moving closer to John, "I've got family. I've got you, but you're bound to me. No one has ever chosen to be with me. Or chosen to be my friend. I don't think you understand how difficult I am." Sherlock moved to turn away from John, but he stopped him. 

"Oh, Sherlock. I chose you. I've chosen you. I want to be with you. It is an arranged marriage but I have wanted you since I first spoke with you," John kissed him, then pulled a paper from the folds of his kilt, "I've written you notes, darling, so you can keep them and always remember how I feel about you. I've left notes tied to rocks with ribbons and sprigs of flowers for you to follow. Follow the notes and the clues, and you will find me at the end of them, ready to marry you."

Sherlock tried to ask John more questions, but John shushed him with a kiss. John stroked Sherlock's ribs, his hip, his outer thigh. He pecked a kiss on the end of his nose, "Read all my notes in order. I'll see you when you've solved the riddles."

John left the room, shutting the door gently behind him. Sherlock blinked at the door, sleepy, eventually blowing out the candle. He tucked the note under his pillow, deciding to read it in the morning. 

Sherlock awoke to the light streaming into his window. He sat up and went to his wash basin, scrubbing his face with cold water. At the side of the basin was a pressed and cleaned handkerchief, embroidered with J.H.W. along the edge. Sherlock had forgotten about it and assumed he'd lost it when he'd fallen from his horse. He felt warm recalling how John had taken Sherlock's bead from his braid as a token in exchange. Perhaps the handkerchief was a sign that last night was not just a wonderful dream.

Someone knocked at the door, Sherlock bade him enter. William entered with Tavis behind him. They both smiled brightly, carrying Sherlock's Watson tartan pattern kilt, plaid and dressing shoes and hose. 

Tavis put the leather shoes on a chair, "We didn't have time to make you any wedding dress shoes, but Mycroft is lending you his. With today being such short notice and all."

Sherlock stood in the middle of his bedroom, holding on to his handkerchief, and asked with wonder, "So I'm finally to be married? It wasn't a dream?" 

William smiled at him, leading him over to the chair to help him dress, "No, Lord Holmes. It is true. John Watson doesn't want to wait."

Sherlock had been in a state of anxious anticipation for so long he couldn't believe the day had arrived. He was happy that his family's future was secured, while also overjoyed and nervous with the idea of being John Watson's husband. 

Sherlock allowed William and Tavis to help him dress. His large plaid was wound around him, tightened by clasp loops and his belt. William assisted Sherlock with his high socks and woven garters. He had never seen fabric so finely created just to cover his feet. He was accustomed to running around the farmstead in worn leather slippers. Today, William dressed him in a pair of Mycroft's decorated _brogan tionndaidh._ They were black, and slightly large at the toe, but looked sharp against the gray and white socks, the black and white sporran, and the plaid pattern of reds, greens and yellows. 

After Sherlock was dressed, he sat in a chair while Tavis used oiled fingers to comb through Sherlock's sleep tousled curls. He wove together two braids, one with the Watson clan colors and the second with the Holmes clan colors. He took these two braids and pulled them back, creating a crown of braids around the top of his head. To secure them, Tavis used a hair pin covered in jewels. 

Tavis stepped back to inspect his work. Sherlock tried to touch his hair as a reflexive gesture and Tavis swatted his hand away. 

"Do not touch your hair until your groom can let it down for you. You look like a crowned prince, or a wood sprite from the forest. You are absolutely glowing and beautiful, and I would not let you go if you did not love him and he didn't love you," Tavis bestowed a kiss on the crown of Sherlock's head, "Where did your betrothed leave your first clue?"

Sherlock thought. He recalled being very tired the night before, but he did remember tucking a note under his pillow. It was a plain note, written in what he assumed was John's quick scrawl. He read it out loud, "Sherlock, look for the rocks tied with flowers. With the rocks are my notes with the clues for the next note. These notes will remind you why I've fallen in love with you and why I want you with me for all of my days. The notes will also have clues that will lead you from place to place, and at the last clue we will be waiting for you for the handfasting."

Sherlock looked up at Tavis and William, smiling, "The game is on!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brogan tionndaidh = leather shoes


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock bounded out of the house, nearly tripping over the first rock outside the front stoop. The rock was painted blue, and tied to it with a white ribbon was a branch of yellow Forsythia and John's first note. Sherlock twisted his braid in his fingers as he read the letter, "Gather the flowers I leave for you and bring them along your journey. Blue, white, yellow are the colors I want you to remember. Blue for the constant storm and wonder in your eyes, your intelligence, your wit. White for your purity, your beauty, your dedication to your family. Yellow for the joy and light you've brought to my life. The moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew I wanted you in my life." 

Sherlock picked up ther put the note in a fold of his kilt and thought a moment, rolling the short Forsythia branch in his fingers. What did the note mean? Where would he go next? After a few minutes he rembered, the fields that bordered his land and the Watson land. That was where John had first seen Mycroft and Sherlock conducting experiments and had been intrigued with him. 

Sherlock took off at a run, a grin on his face. He was excited by the mystery and the clues. He hoped he was right with where to go next.  After a 15 minute run, he came upon the edge of the first sheep field. Tied to a tree along the edge was a rock painted purple with a green ribbon holding a branch of red Flowering Currant. He untied the rock, catching it before the package fell to the ground, "Sherlock, _luaidh,_ you are so clever. I knew you would find the next clue. You remember everything. Even the story of how I became absolutely lovesick from watching you. The color purple is for the passion I feel for you, that I long for the warmth and constancy of you in my bed and at my side. Green is for the grass that was wet with dew where I watched you dance for the first time. Red is for your lovely cheeks and neck. They flush so beautifully when you are in passion or embarrassed. I didn't know who you were when I rode up on you dancing. You struck me as a young boy, barely a man, beautiful and sweet. My heart was truly yours when I learned the stable boy and Sherlock Holmes were one in the same." 

Sherlock smiled, knowing exactly where to go next. He took a moment to wrap the Forsythia and the Flowering Currant with the green ribbon. He ran at a breakneck pace towards the stables on his property. When he arrived, he didn't see anything. Finally, at the corner of the building a colored rock caught his eye. In the distance, he could hear laughing and singing. He had an idea, before he opened the note, where it would lead him next.

The last rock was smaller, but long and flat. It was tied with a sinew of leather around the mouth of a glass jar, and in the jar was a half dozen roses. Sherlock picked up the jar, freeding the note underneath. He quickly grabbed the note and tucked it in his kilt before it could blow away. 

He put the Forsythia and the Flowering Currant in the jar with the roses and they all fit perfectly. It was a wedding decoration that Sherlock could easily carry. With the notes all tucked in his kilt, he took a moment to examine the long rock tied to the jar.  It was delicately painted, one side was the green, red, yellow squares and slim stripes of the Watson tartan pattern, the other side was the deep blue and pin striped black of the Holmes. It was so beautiful he hated to put all the flowers down, but with the sounds of laughing and merryment in the distance urging him on, he longed to reach his final destination. 

"My dearest Sherlock. No doubt you can hear us from this spot and you know where the handfasting will take place. I hope you have gathered all the flowers as I've asked, because I've imagined this moment for days. I've closed my eyes, and all I can see is you, with your beautiful curls and braided hair, coming over the ridge to our new homestead, carrying flowers that symbolize my deep love and respect for both your body and your mind. When you come across the ridge you will see a wagon and _Soilleir_ hitched to it. She will pull us to my house for a fortnight so we may celebrate our wedding union alone. I want you to know this is only for a bit, so we can then gather everything of mine to bring back to our home, with your family here. At the place we will marry and pledge ourselves to one another, that is where we will settle. I've missed you, my love. I cannot wait to see you. Your dearest, John."

Sherlock did his best to keep from spilling the water from the jar as he ran, but as it was, the jar was nearly empty when he rounded the ridge and came upon his homestead. The scene reminded him of his brother's ceremony, but no one was sitting as there were no benches set out. Everyone was standing and talking. He imagined this was due to the fact that John was as anxious to leave as his letter conveyed. 

He looked over the crowd, scanning, but he didn't see anyone else in the Watson tartan. He saw a sea of blue and black of the Holmes, and the few yellow and green of Lestrades. He saw his parents, and the white embroidered fabric of the handfasting cloth and cord, this time woven with the fabrics of both the Holmes and Watson clans. He stood there, perplexed, until he realized the silence of everyone stopping their conversation and looking at him. 

Sherlock looked, feeling a bit dizzy. Had John left? Where was he? He heard John calling his name, but he still couldn't find him. He recognized John on the edge of the crowd, approaching him. Sherlock hadn't seen him right away as he was wearing a Holmes tartan. Dressed smartly, his hair and beard combed and slicked with oil, John came up to Sherlock, clicking his jaw closed with his finger tips. 

"Hello, love. You look even more beautiful than I imagined. Your cheeks rosy from running, carrying my flowers," John leaned up, kissing Sherlock on the lips, then on the cheek, his jaw, close enough to whisper in his ear, "I cannot wait to marry you, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled back, one hand on John's chest, the other still holding the jar of flowers, "You're wearing my plaid. I'm just supposed to wear yours. Why are you wearing my plaid? My tartan and colors?"

John grinned, tucking his chin down, pulling Sherlock back against him. He whispered in his ear again, "I want you to know that we are pledging one to another. I am joining your family, and you are joining mine. I can't think of any better symbolism than me taking you home, and our tartans and plaids being mixed up on the floor of my bedroom." 

John gave Sherlock a smacking kiss on the lips before grabbing his hand and taking him down to his parents. His head was spinning as he watched John's kilt sway on his hips, his shins red from the cold morning air, the sinewy muscles on his forearm and bicep flexing. Tavis stopped them, taking the jar out of Sherlock's hand and gingerly removing the decorative rock, wraping the sinewy cord around his wrist and creating a bracelet, the rock lying flat across the top of his wrist. Tavis pulled another rock with sinew out of his kilt, and taking John's hand, wrapped this one around his wrist. Both rocks were decorated the same, one side decorated with the Holmes' plaid, one side with the Watson's. Sherlock looked at John with his eyebrow raised. 

"Sherlock," John began, "I know you didn't want to get married, least of all, matched. You agreed to the match to save your family, and I love you for that. I will care for you and your family all of my days. I do not want you to feel that I am erasing you, or taking you away from your family. I want us each to wear these bracelets, with the Holmes tartan facing out, and the Watson tartan against our skin, to remind you that I love _you as you are._ That I've bound myself to you. But that you are still you. You don't need to change, or completely erase yourself, or change for me. I love you. And all  you are, which is why I am wearing your plaid today. You wore mine, even though you were terrified, and scared, and so young for a match. I wrote you all these notes today so you may keep them, even when you doubt, to remind you of how much I've grown to love you, and that I hope to grow into loving you."

Sherlock hadn't prepared anything to say. He hadn't bought anything, or made anything for John. He felt quite panicked, quite unprepared for the entire experience. 

"Sssshh," John cooed, moving up close to Sherlock, "I wanted to marry you. To surprise you. You didn't have to prepare or do anything. All you have to say is yes, and that is only if you want to. As I told you, I will care for you, and your family, whether or not you marry me. If you don't want to marry me, you don't have to do so. I love you enough to let you do what you would like to do."

Sherlock waited. Looking into John's eyes, his parents standing next to him holding the handfasting cloth, he was unsure what to say. He held John's hands, squeezing them. He took a deep breath. 

"You've seen me. You've seen me dance, and not made fun of me. You've seen me ill, and you've cared for me. You've seen that I'm different, and you don't hate me for it, or think I am odd, in fact, you tell me that's why you love me. You see me as I am, and you love me. I want to know you better. I want to be with you, in every way I can be. I want to be your husband. Of course I want to marry you," without waiting for his father, Sherlock took the handfasting cloth and grasped John's forearm with his left hand, John's forearm resting on Sherlock's, John's hand grasping Sherlock's left elbow. Sherlock felt the cool rock and the sinewy cords of both their bracelets. Each man used their right hand to wind the cloth around their clasped arms. As the cloth was wound around their forearms, Sherlock continued, "I want you with me, John. To be by your side, forever."

John was smiling. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see his parents looked slightly scandalized, but he didn't care. He reached forward and grabbed John by the back of the neck and kissed him, opening his mouth for a moment to taste him. Sherlock's heart ached with longing. As he pulled away from the kiss, everyone erupted into cheers and calls. John asked, "Are you ready to leave? I have the wagon packed."

Sherlock didn't respond. He took the handfasting cloth and unwraped it, throwing it over his shoulder. He grabbed John's hand and ran, laughing as he and John climbed into the horse wagon. As he sat down, smoothing down the handfasting cloth over his laugh, John kissed his husband breathlessly, "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." 

Sherlock smiled, "Yes, husband."

John smiled, picking up the reins, urging Soilleir away from the crowd. the mare went at a brisk pace, unconcerned with the yelling and congratulations being shouted at the former bachelors. Sherlock sat right next to John, snuggling in for heat in the early morning air, "How long is it to your house?"

John smiled, "Well, husband," he giggled a bit before continuing, "my former home is probably an hour away by wagon. My home is back there. We're just going to my former home to be alone for a while, and get some things. It will be longer on the way back as the load will be heavier."

Sherlock grinned, spreading out the handfasting cloth as a blanket. The wagon really was bare, except for one small bag at his feet. He tried to pick it up to look in it, but John stopped him. 

"Don't, not until we're home. Those are some....things from...another married couple. To help us along. I don't want you seeing them until I can explain then to you."

"Oh," Sherlock answered, putting the leather bag down. He looked at John, considering placing his hand on his knee. He reconsidered, instead, spread the handfasting cloth over both of them, as there were no other blankets. He watched John guide the mare down paths and fields, hoping the hour would pass quickly. 


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock felt at peace as they rode together in the wagon for the hour's journey. They didn't speak much, but turned and gave each other glances every few minutes. Sherlock couldn't stop smiling. He rested his calf against the wedding gift bag at his feet. He watched the scenery, the rolling hills, the purple thistle, the sheep and cattle dotted across the landscape. As they rounded the last bend towards a farmstead at the end of a lane, they came upon two men riding horses. Soilleir whinnied, and picked up her steps. 

"Aye, Lord Watson!" the stouter man called, riding up alongside the wagon, "You've brou' yer bonnie groom home?"

John smiled, letting the reins up and allowing Soilleir to finish the familiar pace to the stable, "No, just to spend a bachelors' handfasting honeymoon. I will then move into our house on the Holmes homestead."

The farmhand looked at Lord Watson for a long moment, finally stating, "Very well, sire. Let me air out the house a bit and refresh it with dried lavender. Then we will leave you alone unless you specifically call for us." He then broke his horse off into a gallop, calling out to the other farmhand. 

Sherlock looked over the house. It was taller than the houses on his farmstead, built with flatter, longer rocks in a staggered pattern. Surrounding the house were traditional highland purple thistle, white meadowsweets, all colors of crocuses and red wild basil. The flower gardens ran like a a river down and in between trees that flanked the sides of the home. 

Sherlock sat up, gripping the side of the wagon, "It's beautiful," he turned, looking at John's face. He grinned up at Sherlock, slowing Soilleir so she didn't pitch Sherlock out.

"Our home will be even more beautiful, Sherlock. And your happiness is worth all of my gardens and all of my lands." 

Sherlock looked at John, sitting down even closer than before. He wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to explain to him how happy he was. He couldn't think of how to express his incandescent joy, so he surprised himself by saying, "Can Soilleir gallop any faster?"

John's face turned pink, and his neck and exposed chest turned red. He didn't reply, and instead clicked and snapped the reins, Soilleir responding with an increased speed and jump in her step. Sherlock felt the breeze blow his hair and the scent of lavender as they rounded the turn to the stable. The back of the house was full of lavender bushes, so full and fragrant there was just a small path to the stables. John pulled the reins over a post, telling Sherlock, "My farmhands will finish putting her away. Bring the bag."

Sherlock grabbed the leather bag that had been stowed under his seat. He jumped down from the wagon, his legs beginning to shake. He wasn't sure that he'd be able to walk. John was at his side, holding his arm. Sherlock allowed John to take the bag from him. They entered John's home, the windows open and the light shining in from many windows and the fireplace hatch. John led Sherlock over to his bed which was tucked in the corner of the house, at the opposite end of the kitchen. 

"Sherlock," John said, running his hands up and down Sherlock's arms, "Will you lay down with me? We can rest from the journey and the long day."

Sherlock nodded as John took the bag from his hand. John sat it on floor, then grabbed a mug of cold water from a pitcher on the dresser. He offered Sherlock the mug, watching as a bit of water dripped from his mouth to his neck. Their eyes locked, Sherlock watching John's eyes follow the bead of water from his jaw to the hollow at the base of his throat. He took the mug out of Sherlock's hand, refilled it, quickly swallowing it, placing it on the dresser. 

"Lie with me, Sherlock. You are so lovely," John said, weaving his fingers in between Sherlock's. He could feel John's pulse on his wrist as he pulled back the covers on the bed. 

"Will you lie with me without any plaids, my husband?" Sherlock asked, letting go of John's hand to unwrap the plaid from his upper body. He didn't wait for an answer as he unclipped his kilt and his brogues and socks, slipping under the covers, completely bare. He turned to watch John, beautiful John, keep his eyes on Sherlock as he took off all his clothing, piling it on top of Sherlock's plaids. 

"I told you our families' plaids would look beautiful on the floor together," John whispered, rolling Sherlock close to him as he pulled the comforter over their shoulders. Sherlock shivered as he felt John's shins and feet rub against his. He giggled, "Yes, John, but now that we are naked, I realize how cold your feet are."

John took both of his hands and put them on either side of Sherlock's face, "Let me help you forget how cold they are, my Sherlock."

John kissed him, gently, pecking his lips, his jaw, down his neck, tracing the path the water had taken earlier. He nipped and licked, sucking a bit of blood to the surface on his collarbone. Sherlock moaned, "John, I thought we were going to sleep."

John moved so his erection pressed into Sherlock's hip, "I can move away to give you room and we can sleep if you would like." 

"No," Sherlock said, "No, sleep is boring." 

John rolled over and pulled the bag up onto the bed. He sat up, the covers slipping down, revealing his muscled shoulders, freckled skin, peaked nipples. He pulled out from the bag a variety of oils. 

"I do not want to ruin your thoughts, my dearest Sherlock, by talking about your brother and his husband, but he's educated me on love between two men. We must take things slow so as not to cause harm. Let me kiss and touch you, let me rub you with this, to get you used to my touches my beautiful husband. You can tell me what you like."

Sherlock nodded, his stomach pooling with heat. John took the first vial of oil, putting the bag back on the floor. He ran the oil in between his fingers, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. 

"May I kiss you? And touch you?" John asked, pulling the blankets back. Sherlock nodded. John used his oiled hands to rub the oil across Sherlock's manhood, pulling the oil up in between his legs to his entrance. Sherlock groaned, feeling exposed, oil running over every intimate part of his body. John pushed his thumb into Sherlock's entrance, just slightly, as John kissed him. The kisses started tentative, then turned heated, as John began to alternate stroking him and pressing into his body. 

"John, John. I feel so...I'm not sure. Please. Please..." Sherlock rocked himself, pushing backwards onto John's thumb that was just dipping into his body, and feeling the pressure of John's hand running over his prick. He felt very warm, and exposed, but lovely and nearly overheated. 

"Sherlock, my _prìseil,_ Sherlock. Do you want me to touch you?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock moaned, burying his face into John's neck, "Please, keep touching me, it feels strange, but good....don't stop. Please..."

John moved his thumb, curving a bit so he could push a finger into the ring of muscle, entering his body slowly, "I feel you. I feel your pulse. Please, my lovely boy. My husband."

Sherlock couldn't move more than rocking back and forth, chasing both sensations of John pulling on his cock from root to tip, his finger dipping and pushing on that taut bit of muscle that made him light headed. He could feel himself pulling upward, his bollocks tightened up and he spent, his entrance loosened around John and he dripped all over John's fingers. 

John was touching himself, rubbing himself with Sherlock's semen, his face flushed, his eyes closed, "Sherlock," he moaned, leaving a trail on Sherlock's belly. As his breathing returned to normal, he looked into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and his arms fluttered, he was unsure where to put his hands. 

"Let me, my dearest. Let me clean us up a bit," John said, getting up quickly to grab an old plaid in one of his drawers. "The water will be cold, _Luaidh_ , I don't have a fire going with water on the hearth," He explained, pouring water from the pitcher onto the rag, coming to bed to gently run it over Sherlock's arse, bollocks, thighs, fingers, and stomach. John then used the rag on himself, then used another to dry them both. 

He climbed back into bed, kissing Sherlock's fingers, "I wanted these days alone with you, my beloved, to get to know you, so we could go slowly, and not have any worries about building our home. I don't want you to worry. I will love everything you want to try, or anything you don't or do want to do."

John pushed the fringe out of Sherlock's eyes, feeling the ringlets of Sherlock's hair all the way down the middle of his back. Sherlock moved close, resting himself on John's chest. John sighed, wrapping his arms and legs around the younger, wiry man, "I am glad you are well, and we are in bed together. Last time we laid in a bed you were so sick, and I wasn't sure if the next breath would be your last."

As Sherlock began to drift into sleep, he heard John singing. John kissed Sherlock's temple every few words. It was an old wedding blessing song, one that was sometimes sang, or read, at formal ceremonies.

_Mìle fàilte dhuit le d’bhréid, Fad do ré gun robh thu slàn. Móran làithean dhuit is sìth, Le d’mhaitheas is le d’nì bhi fàs_

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John as he fell asleep, kissing his neck as he began to slumber, his dreams full of lavender and braiding oils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From  
> [ Scottish Toasts and Blessings ](http://www.clanhendersonsociety.org/scottish-toasts-blessings-inscriptions/)
> 
>  
> 
> A thousand welcomes to you with your marriage kerchief,  
> May you be healthy all your days.  
> May you be blessed with long life and peace,  
> May you grow old with goodness, and with riches.


	19. Chapter 19

John woke with a start. The sky was just turning purple with the sun rising and the night fading. For a moment, he was unsure where he was. He thought, with the heavy scent of lavender, that he was in the north spring fields tending to his sheep and had fallen asleep. He willed his breathing to slow, placing his hand over his chest. His heart raced. 

As his breathing returned to normal, he felt long fingers wrap around his hand that was clutched near his breast. A deep baritone responded, "You are alright. You always get nightmares the first night when you've changed your bed. You are home. You are with me, your husband."

John sucked in a breath, "How did you know I had a nightmare?" 

Sherlock picked his head up off of the bed. John could barely see his halo of curls through the fading moonlight. 

"You are used to danger, and waking quickly. You're a farmer, and you've had to fight off enemies, thieves and wolves in the blink of an eye. You rarely wake leisurely. The last time you slept in a bed with me for any length of time I was gravely ill, and you slept lightly and fitfully, worried about my health. Your body is still running on that muscle memory. You awoke, and did not turn to draw me close, but rather sucked in air and looked wide eyed at the ceiling. I know you, my husband."

John turned, kissing Sherlock's nearest cheekbone, "You don't think me odd or broken? That I may wake and forget you before I've shaken off the darkness of my panic? Or thrash out before I remember who you are?"

Sherlock reached over to grab John's shaking hand, "Never. Never has that thought crossed my mind. You are perfect. I read you from a look or the way you dress or the words you say. But you are not broken, or odd. You are perfect. You are my perfect match in every way."

The air was cold and their breath puffed out from under the quilt. Sherlock watched as John, in one swift motion, grabbed at a vial under his pillow and rolled Sherlock underneath him. 

"My beautiful husband with hair _cho dubh ri gual_. Let us continue from last night? If you are ready."

Sherlock smiled, running his fingertips across his husband's cheekbones and lips. He used his thumbs to wipe the sleep from the corners of his blond eyelids. John sighed, pushing down into the mattress, his legs straddling one of Sherlock's. They rubbed against one another, their skin still soft from the oil of the night before. Sherlock sighed, and began to moan as his prick thickened with the heat and friction of his husband's thighs. 

"John. John, what are you..."

John grinned, leaning down on his forearm so he could pull the stopper from the bottle and drain some oil. He coated his fingers with it, discarding the bottle, coating Sherlock and himself generously. 

John opened his legs, trapping Sherlock's thighs between. Sherlock moaned, adjusting himself so he better fit in the crease of John's inner thigh with John's prick tucked beside it. They rutted against one another. 

"John....my stomach feels as if it burns and itches."

John adjusted his arms so they were wrapped under Sherlock's shoulder blades, his palms cradling Sherlock's head. He leaned down, kissing Sherlock sweetly on the mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids. 

"You are my beloved," John breathed into Sherlock's mouth, "For all my days of my life I want you with me. My precious love."

John's voice hitched as he drove to completion, the oil heating between them, their breath quickening and bodies warming. John kicked the quilt away, adjusting himself so his pelvis was tilted further down into Sherlock's, both men leaking precome profusely.

"John, I am, John..." Sherlock grabbed at John's hair, pulling him down for a kiss. He bucked his hips up, his legs unable to keep still. 

"Please, my love, please. I love watching you. Come for me, love. My Sherlock."

Sherlock climaxed, wrapping his arms around John and burying his face into his neck. He shook, digging his fingers into John's hair, rubbing circles into his scalp. John turned, whispering into Sherlock's ear, "I am, my darling, I am. I love you."

Sherlock opened his thighs as John shuddered, the slickness of Sherlock's release allowing John to move even quicker against his husband. John raised up, bringing Sherlock with him, into a sitting position. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and his legs around his waist. As he was lifted onto John's lap, face to face, John released over Sherlock's cock, bollocks, and thighs. 

They kissed, languidly, slowly rocking into one another, Sherlock pulling himself as far on John's lap as he could. John looked up at his bridegroom, nipping at his lower lip.

"You are gorgeous, prìseil. You are wrecked. I love you upon my lap. Your skin glistening in the morning light, beautiful curls over your eyes. Your legs wrapped around my waist. I cannot wait to have you fully."

Sherlock pulled away, tilting his head to look into John's eyes. He smiled, wiggling himself down further onto John's thighs.

"I am a little scared, if I'm honest," he said, running his fingertips up and down John's back, "I am not sure how you are to fit within me. I have had it explained to me how it works, but being faced by your size is altogether a different matter."

John laughed, peppering Sherlock's neck and collarbone with kisses, "I will have to prepare you. We must practice, over and over, and even then, you will be sore afterwards. You may be unable to travel back home for a day or two."

Sherlock lifted his chin, turning his head to allow John to kiss more of his skin. As he spoke, John continued to kiss along every bit of Sherlock he could reach. 

"I will slowly work you open, using my fingers. If you let me, I will kiss you open using my tongue and lips, wetting every bit of you before I fill you with my fingers. When you are writhing, only then will I push into you. You will feel full, and uncomfortable, but soon I will learn your body. I will find that place inside you that causes pleasure, driving against it, and your climax will be greater than anything you've ever felt, my darling."

Sherlock was quiet, moaning under his breath, basking in John's kisses and praises. When John was done, he rolled off the bed, keeping Sherlock wrapped around him. 

"John! John! Put me down! I'm too heavy!"

John laughed, grabbing his arse and bouncing him up further on his waist, "You're not more than a bird. Come with me. Let's get you cleaned up."

Sherlock laughed as John deposited him in a chair. He took a piece of plaid, dipped in cold water from the basin, and knelt between Sherlock's legs. He wiped him clean, grinning up at him, tickling his knees. 

"I love you, my Sherlock. Let's get you clean and then we will review the farm. See what we want to take back to our home."

"Alright," Sherlock breathed, watching John take the plaid and wash himself, "When we are done, can we try what you described?"

John reached up and gave Sherlock a quick kiss on the mouth, "Anything. Everything. But let's take inventory first."

Sherlock smiled, drawing John in for one last embrace before they dressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cho dubh ri gual - as black as coal


	20. Chapter 20

John dressed Sherlock, taking time to wrap his tartan around his chest and his kilt around his hips. John loved lavishing attention on Sherlock, taking his time to pull his long socks and shoes on, kissing his hair and his cheeks as he ran his fingertips down his biceps. 

"John!" Sherlock huffed, standing to adjust his kilt-pin, "I have dressed myself for years. I assure you I am still able to do so."

John laughed, pulling away to clip his own tartan together, "I know you can. But I love touching you, I want to take care of you."

Sherlock looked at John from under his eyelashes, "I am a husband, not a wife. I am not breakable. I do not need to be coddled."

John moved and came up behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his waist. He rested his forehead on his shoulder blades, "I know you are a man. You are strong. You are more than capable of caring for yourself. But I love you and I want to  
touch you. To care for you."

Sherlock squeezed John's arms, patting his forearms, "I know. But I will take care of you, too."

Sherlock left the room and the house at a quick pace, taking in the frosty morning air. The farmhands were stirring from their stable rooms and were feeding and brushing out their horses as the night watch were coming in, exhausted and sleep deprived. The lead farmhand, the one that had ridden up on them last night, galloped beside them. 

"You bridegrooms are up early."

Sherlock looked up at him, "We can't stay in bed all day. We would get chaffed."

The farmhand looked at Sherlock as John laughed. John stepped in between to introduce them. The lead farmhand was Marcus, and would run the farmstead on John's absence and move to the Holmes estate. John surprised Marcus by indicating that he could move into the main house when the husbands left. 

"We'll miss ye Master John," Marcus drawled, jumping off his horse, "But this'un will take care of ye." 

Sherlock blushed, allowing John to lead him away, their fingers interlaced. John walked him to the smallest stable, pointing out all the flowers he was anxious to bring back to their home.

"These small silver fox tails remind me of your eyes. Especially when they are wet with dew, early in the morning. I could stare into your eyes for days."

John picked some up, tucking a bit behind Sherlock's ear. Before Sherlock could protest, John silenced him with a deep kiss as he pressed him up against the side of the stable, "I know you do not want to be fussed over. I know you are not a blushing bride. But I am madly and wildly in love with my new husband. Let me spoil you, please."

Sherlock didn't protest, but allowed John to place the flowers in his hair. They itched, but he left them alone. John's mouth was on his, pressing and moving against his lips, his tongue running against his teeth. John used his fingers to skim under Sherlock's kilt, touching his thighs, his cock and balls. Sherlock moaned, trembling, opening his legs for more of John's touches. 

"This is what my cousins told me about. The benefit of kilts being easy to access the...." He blushed, unable to finish the sentence. 

"Important parts?" John laughed, pulling the kilt up further to reach behind Sherlock to his hole, teasing his finger around the edge of the opening, running around it and over. He was dizzy, hot and thirsty for John's hands on his skin. Every bit of him longed to touch John and be touched by him. 

Sherlock now understood what drove his brother to sneak off with Gregory Lestrade at every opportunity he could, and what drove him to distraction at every meal where Gregory was present. He now understood, down to his bones, the pain on his brother's face when Mycroft had considered he had to take an advantageous arranged marriage. The tears Mycroft tried to hide when he realized that he would have to let the injured traveler go to keep his family from starving. 

Sherlock hadn't understood why Mycroft loved Gregory, but he couldn't stand his brother's red rimmed eyes or Gregory Lestrade's slumped shoulders. He had gone into his parents' room, after thinking for hours for options, and offered himself as a groom instead. He knew that men and women thought he was attractive, and he would make the best of it, and hoped for someone that was at least tolerable. He knew he'd assured his brother's happiness, but he couldn't believe that he'd secured his own. 

John stopped touching Sherlock, "Oh, my darling, why are you crying? My dear, are you alright?"

Sherlock was surprised by the tears tracking on his cheeks, "I was just thinking of my brother. I agreed to be arranged to be married so he could marry his love. I was just resigned to the idea, and the best I thought I could hope for was someone who wouldn't ask too much of me physically and would allow me to still work on my experiments." 

John removed his hand from under Sherlock's kilt and pulled him close. Even though Sherlock was a head taller than John, he made him feel safe and grounded in his strong embrace. John stroked his beloved's cheek, running his finger over his lips. 

"You know I love you. I hope I am not just tolerated. I would do anything for you. I am desperate to have you."

Sherlock smiled, tucking himself into John's embrace, "I am all together surprised by the experiments I am distracted by now. Rather than soil samples and animal demise, I only want to catalog every bit of your skin, the color of your eyes, the different shades of pink as I kiss at your neck. I am wholly ignorant of everything you are and I want to learn."

John grabbed Sherlock even closer, causing his groom to lose his breath, "I have to get you to bed. Properly. I know we just got dressed-"

"Please, John," Sherlock said, grabbing at John's arm to pull him back into their house. They stumbled through the flowerbeds, John giggling as he caught Sherlock from falling. John pulled Sherlock up, and with the momentum he turned, running into the front door. He herded and crowded Sherlock back until he fell onto their rumpled bed. 

Sherlock looked up, licking his lips as he looked at John's body from the top of his head to his feet. John growled, jumping onto the bed and covering Sherlock with his body. He dug his face into the crook of his love's neck, kissing and drawing blood to the surface. He moved down Sherlock's long body, hiking up his kilt. He teased him, "Let's see what's under your kilt, shall we?" John plunged his head under Sherlock's kilt, puffing warm air over his thighs. Without warning, Sherlock's cock was engulfed with hot heat. All Sherlock saw was the outline of John's head bobbing underneath his kilt, the fabric covering his beloved to the middle of his back. He threw his head back as John sucked hard, curling his toes. Sherlock watched as John put his hands under his own kilt, pleasuring himself as he suckled on Sherlock. 

"Oh, John, please. What are you...."

Sherlock yelped as John rutted against the bed, pushing into his fist. He popped off of Sherlock's cock, moving down lower to his hole. Sherlock groaned in anticipation. His cock jumped as John licked, gently, lapping and running his tongue against the pink bud. Sherlock drove himself further down onto John's tongue, amazed at how wonderful it felt to have John kissing him in that place. 

When Sherlock was wet and open, John sat up and pulled off his plaid and kilt. He sat back on his knees and heels, his cock red and dripping, jutting out straight from his body. Sherlock ran his fingers through his own hair, pulling at his scalp, "How will it fit? John, please, how will that fit..."

John slicked his fingers with oil, grinning at Sherlock mischievously. He pulled off Sherlock's kilt and tartan, throwing them across the room. John sat forward, circling his slicked hole with his oil-covered middle finger. He pushed in, crooking his finger to find the nub that made Sherlock moan and his prick drip with clear liquid. Sherlock felt his body stretch, opening his legs as far as he could to allow John to push in further. He added his first finger, stretching Sherlock's tight skin around his digits. He rutted against the bed, turned on by the sight of Sherlock driving himself down on his fingers, his hole fluttering as it opened and shut around them. 

John pushed into Sherlock, adding his ring finger, driving his fingers in and out. With each thrust he pushed in deeper, watching as clear precome leaked and dripped on Sherlock's flat belly. 

"John, please. I can't. Please. More."

John withdrew his fingers and laid himself on top of Sherlock. He rested himself in between his thighs, grabbing his cock, rubbing the tip of his engorged member on Sherlock's stretched hole. 

"Sherlock, you feel so hot. Do you feel me? Can I, sweetheart? My darling?"

John rested his forehead on Sherlock's, their breath mixing together. Sherlock nodded, then tilted his chin up to give John a soft kiss. The stared at each other for a few moments before John started grinding himself against Sherlock in small circles. Reaching between their bodies, John dipped just the tip of himself into Sherlock, drawing himself out again. He then rubbed the tip all around the outside again, slicking the ring with precome and stretching out the muscle. John dipped in again, going a little further, circling the tip of his prick around the slick outside each time. 

"You're so hot Sherlock, and wet," John moaned, pushing in just a bit more, "Can you feel me, just barely touching you? Can you feel me, just there?"

Sherlock nodded, then surprised himself by grabbing John's backside, pulling him closer. John laid fully onto Sherlock, pushing into his body. John felt his heartbeat, his breath forced out of his lungs. 

"I can feel your heartbeat and your breathing. Can you feel me?" Sherlock nodded, bearing down on the burning feeling of John stretching him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, kissing him deeply, rocking his hips up and back. 

"Please, John, please," Sherlock thrashed his head back and forth, his hair sticking to his forehead. 

"Yes, darling, what do you need? I love you, I love you. Please, tell me."

John pushed Sherlock's hair off of his forehead, keeping his eyes locked on his groom's, "I don't know, I want...more of you. Touch me. More."

John rocked up for a deeper angle, pushing into Sherlock. Sherlock rolled side to side, driving John to hit the spot that made him tingle across his belly. Sherlock met John by rolling up, catching his penis in between their bodies. They rocked together, Sherlock growing more and more heated with each push. 

"John, John. I'm going to..."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes, smiling. His eyes were wet, his cheeks crinkled up into a wide grin, "Please, my love. Let me see you. We are joined. I can feel you tightening around me. Come for me, darling. My love. My husband."

Sherlock shuddered, releasing onto his stomach. As he orgasmed, John felt his body shudder around his cock. The squeeze drove John to completion, pulling John's release out of him and into Sherlock's body. John 

Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's head, capturing his face for a kiss. John moaned, sad to leave Sherlock for even a moment. He went across the room for a plaid and water, bringing Sherlock a drink as he cleaned him off. 

John inspected his lover's body, gently touching and looking over every inch of him. He ran his fingers over his ribs, his hips, inspecting the finger tip bruises and the tender place where their bodies had joined. Seeing no injury, he laid down beside Sherlock, wrapping them up in the quilt, facing each other. Sherlock captured John's fingers in his own, bringing each one up to his lips for a kiss. "You have captured my body and soul," Sherlock breathed, now mouthing kisses against John's knuckles, "I love you."

John watched Sherlock's mouth, quiet and fascinated by the ache of love for this man. He stopped, and John kept his fingers laced in between Sherlock's, their hands joined and lying between them on the bed. Sherlock smiled, and John responded, laughing. 

"I know what you mean now," Sherlock said, his eyes starting to droop with sleep. 

John raised an eyebrow, "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock blushed, "When you said that we couldn't travel very much after our first coupling. I agree with you, I imagine I'll be quite sore soon."

John laughed, running his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip, "Will you be alright, my love?"

"Perfect," Sherlock answered. 

The husbands gathered each other close, sleeping the day away in each other's arms. As Sherlock slept, he slept peacefully to the rhythm of John's heartbeat, the smell of lavender and the scent of rain falling on Scottish pasture.

**Author's Note:**

> ** check tags for trigger warning updates **


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